


Alright

by SweetGanymead



Series: More Gullible Than Innocence [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Gaping, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Drinking to Cope, M/M, Masturbation, Past Rape/Non-con, Pregnancy Kink, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Virginity Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-01 06:28:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 52,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10916217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetGanymead/pseuds/SweetGanymead
Summary: Bull tries to help Dorian cope with family issues.





	1. Rubbed Raw

It did not seem like the kind of interaction a magister’s son should be able to become accustomed to. Yet despite his better judgement, Dorian found himself looking forward to the intimate, masturbatory sessions The Iron Bull was so fond of.

Hang social mores and customs… The Bull made him feel _good_ in a way he'd never before experienced. ‘Safe’ was the closest he could come to verbalising the feeling, but it was equally near to acceptance.

The first time the great qunari asked him to jerk off performatively, Dorian had nearly run from the room in panic. Spanking, fingering, bondage, hardcore fucking until sobbing were all just fine in the man’s book... But pleasuring himself in front of an audience?

That first time had been utterly cringeworthy. Dorian hadn't even managed to maintain an erection for more than a minute. Bull assisted his motions enough so Dorian could come.

Touching himself was a source of immense shame, despite Bull’s claims it was “hot” to watch. It was not an activity he should share with a prospective (Maker damn all) lover. It was something solitary done quickly and quietly, and only when absolutely necessary.

Supposedly, it would give The Bull a better understanding of what Dorian liked; it would help him become a better partner. Laying back in the Bull’s lap, it seemed suspiciously like a trap. Maybe Bull would make fun of the faces the ‘Vint made or his foreskin-less cock.

So far, the qunari had yet to do either. No matter Dorian’s fretting, Bull’s minimal teasing was consistently couched with positive reinforcement. The Ben-Hassrath watched his face closely and provided encouragement when the man’s hand faltered on his member.

“That’s good, Dorian. You're doing so well.” Bull would sometimes take the mage’s smaller fist in his own, guiding the motions along a leaking prick with one hand, while pressing on the bloodstone phallus with the other. “Can we go a little deeper?”

There was no way for Dorian to deny Bull a request made when he was this hard. It was so frustratingly one-sided. The smaller man was unable to help himself… he would rock on the dildo as The Bull offered his gentle urging.

It was still too overwhelming for him to come without a touch of protest. He didn't feel comfortable letting go from the gentle palming alone.

“B-bull! Please, it’s too much! I j-just c-can’t!”

“You remember your watchword?” Bull only ever needed to know if Dorian was really struggling or if he was reluctant about jerking off in front of another person.

The immediate nod was good, but Dorian would need to learn vocal confirmation was better when it was possible. Too many physical responses could be involuntary.

At the moment, the big man had been given enough information to know Dorian was cool with the situation. If the mage needed to feel like The Bull was in charge, he could certainly play along. It was not an unfamiliar game.

It was his first time playing it with someone so repressed, but the rules lent themselves well to a man having a hard time accepting his own sexuality. As long as Dorian knew he had the power to stop at anytime with a single word, he could plead and squirm as much as he wanted.

They’d had a stilted conversation about it because Bull was big into communication.

Dorian confessed he found the idea of forced or controlled orgasms arousing. Much easier to relax in a submissive role rather than to confidently request anything.

Bull stated he was comfortable taking any blame for Dorian's pleasure. Lovely to have earned enough trust to take the lead in the bedroom. Begging was hot as shit, anyway.

“That’s okay, then, buddy.” Bull took over stroking the convulsing cock with firm, decisive motions. “As long as it feels good. Here, let’s find your sweet spot.”

“P-please…! I’ll c-come if you d-do that!”

“You need my permission? I could be real mean and tell you not to, but we’re just trying to learn how to make you feel good.”

Bull hooked a finger through metal loop in the phallus, steepening the angle at which it entered Dorian’s passage.

“B-bull… Bull! AH! W-wait, please, Bull, wait!”

“Jeez, such a needy bottom.” The forceful strokes did not slow or relent.

“I’m really g-going to! Please l-let me come!”

“Alright, I know.” Bull adjusted their positions, so he was partially hugging Dorian from behind while still maintaining the thrusts. “Shhh, Dorian, shh. It’s okay, just relax and let go. I’ve got you.”

Dorian would invariably orgasm at The Bull’s insistence. Sometimes he would try to fight the impulse, just to see if he could, but never lasted long. Bull offered ample praise as Dorian came. 

The guilt which washed over the Altus after the post coital glow was inevitable, though the intensity was lessening. It was an alien emotion to a Qunari, but one which Bull tended to with loving after care.

Every time they lay down together, Dorian felt more confident, less timid. The big man seemed to know exactly what to say to soothe any embarrassment.

“Thank you, Dorian. You were such a good boy for me. I love when you share yourself.” Bull wouldn’t ever be cruel enough to make Dorian say ‘you’re welcome,’ but eye-contact during and after was mandatory.

“I still don't see what you get out of this…” Dorian couldn't allow himself enough self-acceptance to find his own actions arousing to Bull.

“Ha, well don't worry about it then, big guy. Trust me, I get plenty out of it. Want me to help you clean up?”

The Bull’s massive fingers were kind though thorough. Dorian was made to assure the qunari his handling wasn't too rough.

“It's still pretty early. You heading to the library again? We could go get something to eat first, if you like.”

Always so terribly awkward to head out with The Bull for dinner when the Herald’s Rest was crowded. The likelihood other patrons would guess their specific activities was slim, only a handful of people considered them an item currently.

But, Dorian did really want to learn to be comfortable with himself and with their budding interactionship.

“I could eat.” Better to only give as much as he was currently able to, lest he cause himself undue anxiety. “Could we just grab a quick bite? I promised Solas we'd look over a few artifacts he recently recovered.”

“Sure, we could just order something quick and have Cabot package it up. I'll walk you to the Main Hall. Wanted to practice a bit with the boys this week, anyway.”

Cabot surprised them both by having a decent halla and root stew on hand. The dwarf also had some fresh baked bread, hearty and covered in cracked seeds.

Bull paid before Dorian could offer any objection. He rubbed comforting circles into the tensing back muscles while whispering in hushed tones it was a paltry thanks for the mage’s earlier offering.

How easily the man blushed at the praise. He was more thankful for The Bull than he was able to express.

They walked together to the head of the Main Hall. Dorian halted at the side of the door, so they were obscured by the stone jamb.

The Ben-Hassrath knew better than to follow where the Altus wavered in his company.

“Hey, go get some work done. Dig up some shit on that leather faced bastard. You got your book from the Inquisitor, right?”

“Oh, the Liberalum? I'm still going through it. Massive tome- it makes for terribly dry reading.”

“Aw, I thought you liked reading boring crap? You'll get it done. We're counting on you.” Bull patted Dorian on the back: neutral positive reinforcement.

“Yes… I'll aspire to. Though, I'm not sure what good I'll be able to do with a name alone.”

“Come on, Dorian. Don't put yourself down like that! Forewarned is forewarned. Anything we can get is helpful.

“In the Qun, we say calling a thing by its name is to know its purpose. Any information we can get on Corypheus will help us turn the tide.”

“Quite. Or at least, one might hope.”

The shy wringing of his brown hands was precious. One day, Dorian would believe his own bluster and accept compliments with an un-pinkened face.

“Want to come by mine later? Or you wanna sleep alone tonight?”

Bull could do his best to help along the shyness with small steps. Dorian’s eyes flickered around, looking to see who was looking.

“My room? Until you patch the hole in your roof, too cold to sleep comfortably in yours. Is that okay?” The addendum was added a bit too fast, voice a tad high.

“Whenever or wherever, Dorian. You oughta know that by now.”

The mage flushed darker before pressing a quick kiss to the underside of Bull’s jaw.

“I'll only be a few hours. Four or five at the most. You'll wait if I'm a bit tardy, won't you?”

“Course. I'll be in your room until you throw me out.”

So worth a pinch of leeway to see Dorian lightly bite his lower lip and grin bashfully.

“Ah, well, yes. I'll try to not keep you waiting, then.”

They parted with another furtive kiss, Dorian red about the ears and cheekbones.

Bull, feeling proud of himself for making Dorian blush, strode back to the training dummies with his horns high.

Krem merely raised an inquisitive brow at the late arrival, though Rocky made few vulgar noises and gestures to the delight of Skinner and Dalish.

“Least I'm getting some. More than can be said for you sorry assholes. Get those shields up!”

As pleased as the qunari was, he couldn't truly be steamed at his Chargers. Even if they honestly gave him any shit, he’d immediately forget the insults when he was back in Dorian’s room.

Dorian should have known something was ‘up’ (as the commoner folk were so quaintly wont to say) when he ran into Mother Giselle beneath the scaffolding in the Hall. She wholly avoided him rather than simply casting her eyes away when met with a direct stare.

He ate his food in silence on the couch in Solas’ sanctum. Bafflingly, the elf was not interested in engaging further about his recent findings. The artifacts were not elven in origin, they were ancient Tevinter. This was all the information Dorian was given before being ignored. He did not like being ignored.

Despite their heritage, weren't all magical objects worthy of study?

Now he was peeved as well as unsettled. Left to feel unworthy himself. He watched Solas resume his painting, the unease in his belly still producing sour bile on his tongue.

Dorian was suffering from the most disturbing notion his life was about to propel beyond his comfort zone. He couldn't shake the persistent sense of impending doom.

The Inquisitor baulked upon finding him. They were blanched paler than he'd ever seen them. They hemmed and hawed, begged his indulgence. Would he mind stepping up to the library for a private conversation?

His hands were already shaking as he set his dinner aside, advised Solas he could finish it.

He should have intuited what was coming next. It wasn't as if it hadn't happened before. It should not have taken him minutes to piece together the Inquisitor’s awkward, stammering conversation: there was more than typical anti-Tevinter prejudice a foot behind Giselle’s reticence to meet his eyes.

The note was utter nugshit. Halward knew _nothing_ about his son. If he did, why should he have sent the letter to Mother Giselle. True, she had authority here. But damn if she and Dorian did not dislike each other.

At the very least, the Inquisitor had done him the courtesy of being honest, Dorian tried to tell himself. He was certain the Reverend Mother would have had them maintain secrecy until the last possible minute.

How dare his father, the hypocritical bastard, stick his nose into his affairs now? Once the man had a father who knew right from wrong. The magister was consumed with appearances now.

Like father, like son?

No.

Every humiliation, every depravity he'd subjected himself to while escaping Halward’s disdain rushed into memory simultaneously.

Killing nugs, then rats, on city outskirts and roasting them with only his hands so he would not starve. Spitting out their brittle bones on the pavement. He worked them into weak sigils he could hawk for beer money.

Eating from the gutters when he hoped no one was watching, stealing day old bread from inattentive bakers as he realised no one would pay for translation services, when his pathetic charms ceased to sell.

Stupid, arrogant. Dorian should have known. He just needed to stay alive long enough to make it further down south.

Kneeling in dingy alleyways, dry lips wrapped around strange cocks as he sucked not just for monetary compensation but for his very sustenance. Called every demeaning name under the sun for meagre handfuls of cold, unfeeling coppers.

The times he'd been taken so roughly from behind, trying to find some pleasure in the agony of being torn apart for a few extra coins. Trying to hold his trembling thighs apart while forcing the smile on his face.

Maker, how he'd cried the first time with the lone patron who'd offered to bring him in off the streets. It had hurt so much, but he fell asleep with a full belly for the first time in months.

The generously called generous man had told the mage he was perfect as he was while insisting he shave himself smooth from lip to toe. He'd held him still as he violated him, pressed slobbering kisses along his nape and shoulders.

_“Please, you’re hurting me.”_

_“I'm a fairly large man. The first few times always hurt.”_

It should be painful, those words rang true, it was what he deserved. The price of pleasure _was_ pain.

None of this was worth saying aloud to the Inquisitor. Instead, he maintained a cheerily peeved disposition. He’d let them know when he had the time to head out to Redcliffe. Too many engaging duties to complete before he could attend menial personal business.

Dorian threw the book he'd been pretending to peruse over the railing with an infuriated snarl once he was alone in the library.

Fuck Halward and fuck his supposed concern.

He'd put it more eloquently to the Inquisitor, he was certain. His words were failing him now.

Guilt only slightly sullied his sulking when Solas exclaimed in shock. The book must have landed by his desk. If there was a just or loving Creator, it hadn't hit the elf on the head.

Solas came up the stairs quietly, holding the book to his chest. He did not appear injured, nor did he appear confident in addressing the angry man.

He fidgeted on his bare feet before attempting eye contact.

“I did not mean to, but I overheard a little of that. I'm… I'm sorry to have eavesdropped. Are you alright?”

Was honesty a good policy? Dorian wasn't sure how close they were. They argued well enough; no acrimony hung stiffly in the air betwixt them after heated disputes.

“No.” He finally spat out. “I probably will be, though.” A middle of the road response if ever there was one.

Solas remained away, clutching the book Dorian had thrown.

“Can I do anything?”

“Ha! Not unless you can remotely kill a man an ocean apart.”

The elf placed the book on the desk carefully.

“It is an option open to you, to have your father killed. Is that what you really want? The Inquisitor or The Iron Bull would likely be happy to accommodate your request.”

Dorian pressed his fingers into the corners of his eyes until tiny stars burst in his vision. Weeping would likely drive Solas back downstairs.

“I don't know what I want.”

“The human condition, my friend.” The wry smile which accompanied a fine hand on Dorian's shoulder was surprising, enough to engender a pitiable laugh.

“Then I'd ask you ask a Dalish clansman. Should I want to kill him, do you think?”

“Does he deserve it? I have heard of magisters who do. Though… my experience of our elders- they only want the best for their young.”

How old was Solas, he'd delicately frame the statement so? Maybe forty or so.

“Hmph! I suppose they do so often think they know best for us.”

“Do you need to talk about this? I could lend one- or both- of my ears. Receptive as they are.” A tiny smile.

The offering was tempting, Solas was a neutral party. Bull would likely take Dorian's side no matter the facts. Sera, his other elf, would possibly beset his father with thousands of angry bees.

Messy, messy, messy.

Solas already looked so out of his element in dealing with too human emotions.

“No. No thank you. I appreciate your concern. I think I'd just like to drink until I can't feel my face.”

The slighter mage was relieved. But worry still clung to his expression.

“Please know you have friends here. We are fond of your presence. We’ll listen if you need to unburden.”

“Dear me, I hope I don't gain a reputation as a maudlin sort of pest! Truly, friend, not much passes behind this pretty face other than thoughts of indulgence.”

Solas frowned for only a moment.

“We all do the best we can with the options presented us, Dorian.”

Dorian shook his head ruefully.

“Some do seem to cope better than others.”

His heart hurt as his mind spun. He'd left Tevinter with the specific purpose of outrunning his familial problems, making it to a country where he could effect real change despite his shortcomings. Somehow, Halward’s money was more than sufficient to undo any actions Dorian took.

The man's promise to meet The Bull was momentarily forgotten. He returned to the Rest post haste and spent more than he had in getting drunk.

Sera approached him hesitantly. She barely had the chance to address him (“Are you alri-”) before he rounded on her with a vicious hiss.

_“Fuck off!”_

She gave him a last look of pity before running back upstairs to her room.

Dammit, he was an abject asshole.

Cabot let him put another bottle on his tab. The mage’s often irrational compulsion to get raging drunk compelled him to pay any outstanding debt expeditiously. He'd traded the dwarf rings of solid gold before to pay off his binging.

Dorian did not find his legs as cooperative in drinking alone along the fort’s walls. They buckled precariously beneath him as he climbed the steps.

He did want to hash out his grief with a sympathetic audience. He desperately wanted someone to empathise with. So _badly_ Dorian wanted someone, anyone, to tell him he wasn't in the wrong for fleeing home and the constrictive Tevinter customs which had bound him for so long. He needed to hear he was doing good, his current actions outweighing anything he'd done in the past.

The desire for forgiveness was overwhelming. What dizzying depths he sunk to, yet not everything could be his fault.

Did Bull’s offer to talk about his (how charmingly Southern for another Northerner) feelings extend to problems beyond the qunari's control?

It was now too late to ask. The mage wasn't confident in his ability to speak coherently about the burning shame.

Dorian stood instead on the ramparts, a half empty bottle of whiskey gripped in a shaking fist. He wanted to chuck the bottle along with his cares into the snowy abyss below.

“ _Hilarious_ I am still screaming on the inside.” The man announced to no one in particular. He drained more of the booze and leaned heavily on the stone wall.

What power should the asshole have over his son in the here and now? The magister was thousands of miles away. Dorian should be beyond his reproach.

He had _left_ and he had _survived_. Nothing else should matter.

With a shuddering cry, he spun and hurled the half empty bottle into the night. The crisp shattering was too late in coming. The sound utterly unsatisfying.

He sagged back against the stone. Wouldn't it just be so much easier to leap from the walls himself? Wouldn't it be so upsetting to his dear old father to learn his only son, the scion of his house, the unworthy heir to his hopes and dreams, had jumped to his death rather than speak with his proxy?

It was frightening to consider. It was implausible as a solution. The drop was as far as it was fatal; Dorian absolutely would not survive it.

And yet… it was something of an appealing notion…

Dorian turned and placed one foot on the rise of stone.

Could it really be as easy as taking two steps? His right foot joined his left with a tiny huff. Getting to this point was simple enough.

Only a small tilt would be required to ‘fall.’ Drunk as he was, no one would assume it was intentional.

“So _very_ simple.” Dorian mused to himself. And it would be so very simple, indeed.

He let a tan, nug skin boot toe the edge of the ancient masonry. Loose pebbles skittered off the side and down.

He was not earnestly considering jumping. Was he? He could not have allowed his father such extensive power over him.

In all honesty, he _probably_ hadn't been about to jump.

So Bull’s strong, muscled arm catching him round the waist, pulling him away from the stone’s edge was a total surprise.

“What are you doing?”

The question was breathed in a single horrified exhalation, the tone too serious for Dorian to handle presently.

What had he been doing...? The man's brain was befuddled with alcohol- maybe he didn't know.

“I was- I thought-” Had he been seriously entertaining a fantasy of jumping off the ledge? Or merely antagonising a fictitious ideal of his father?

The Bull’s one eye was dewed over. Terror was not an expression shown on the qunari’s face frequently. It was prominently displayed now.

“Dorian?”

The need for assurance was nearly manifest enough to touch. Unlikely that Dorian might get away with telling Bull he had a levitation spell.

“What are you doing here?” A piss-poor substitute for an answer.

The Bull had yet to relinquish his firm hold on the man’s midsection. So silly. The mage had no intention of flying away if he was loosed.

“I saw you head to the tavern and-”

“So you came nosing about? Spying on me?”

The hold transformed to an encompassing, two armed embrace.

“I saw you from the courtyard, I followed you from the Rest. You weren't heading home. I thought maybe you forgot we were meeting later.”

“Checking up on me, were you? Then I should suppose my reputation as an alcoholic precedes me.”

“No!” Bull reacted to the bitterness more than the accusation. “I thought maybe you'd… you looked sad. I was gunna offer to buy you a drink until I saw you leave.”

“The cure all to my every upset. How very kind.”

Dorian was doing his best to be a dick. This was tremendously embarrassing. Worse than being caught with his pants down. Scaring Bull off was so much harder than anticipated.

“Can we maybe go back to your room? We can talk all you want there.”

The sheer emotion in The Bull’s voice was unbearable. The qunari was evidently committed to bringing Dorian away from the ledge.

“Dear me, I must be making a scandal of myself if the resident savage won't be seen in public with me.”

“You know that's not what I’m saying, Dorian.”

The stars overhead were beginning to whip around in Dorian's vision. Constellations blurred together alarmingly.

“Fine, fine. You're being so decent and I'm being a Tevinter shit. Of course, let’s go wherever.”

While the mage could have managed, Bull kept his arm around Dorian's middle as they stumbled back to his room. The ‘Vint took advantage of his wastebasket, heaved his guts into it, as soon as it was in sight.

The Bull let Dorian get undressed. He waited with a dismal frown on his scarred mouth until the smaller man was under the covers before speaking again.

“Are you alright?”

Why did everyone find that particular question so alluring today?

“What should give you the impression I was not?”

Bull inhaled deeply, held the breath a beat, before exhaling. He'd just watched Dorian try to take his own life.

“Would you tell me if you weren't?” The qunari had not moved from the foot of the bed.

Such a good question. As understanding as he had always been, shouldn't Dorian want to share his grief with The Bull?

“No. I wouldn't tell you if I wasn't.”

It was quiet after the admission. The man might as well have said he was sorely unhappy.

“Why not?”

A million reasons not to. Family issues were personal; they were not the duty of sexual partners; they were messy, confusing; they required unfairly great investments of energy and emotion to untangle.

“I'd just as soon leave it be. You don't really want to hear me bitch, do you?” No one ever had before.

“Yeah. I really, really do.”

Bull was typically a short haul guy. Not by choice, necessarily. His work as a Ben-Hassrath had him running around Thedas. He’d never stuck around in one place long enough to consider having a single partner. Who knew how long it would take to defeat Corypheus?

Even if it was not feasible, he wanted Dorian around in the long run. How had he failed to make the sentiment clear?

Uhg. Couldn’t he have been uncaring, like so many of Dorian's past ‘lovers?’ Did every simpering whim warrant tenderness, consideration?

“I wasn't going to, not actually. Didn't you know that?”

Bull’s massive hand closed protectively, reflexively, around the man’s blanket clad ankle.

“Okay. If you say so.”

Apparently, he had not known that. Not anymore than Dorian did presently.

“I was just asking myself if it'd be easy to do it. I only wanted to know. Does that make sense?”

The Bull’s eye shut tightly. Dorian hoped he wasn't about let tears fall.

“Was it?”

The qunari couldn't ask that. He should not want to know. He shouldn't care about someone like Dorian this much. If the man's ass was in play, his mental state shouldn't be a concern.

How long was acceptable before an answer needed to be given?

“Only too.”

Oof. A bad response. But an earnest one.

Bull swallowed hard. The hand resting on Dorian’s ankle squeezed.

“Can I ask… why?”

“You can ask whatever the fuck you'd like. Must I answer?”

“I’m never going to ask you to do something you don't want to. You know that, right?” The Bull had hoped the man had wanted to talk.

Please, every god who ever lived or held the pretense they had, there had to be a way to make the ‘Vint see reason.

“It’s nothing to do with you. Is that satisfactory?” Perhaps the concern was merely misplaced. Could The Bull be assuaged by an assurance he wasn't at fault?

The large grey thumb paused its light massaging.

_It doesn't always have to be about me._

“You can talk to me, anyway, if you want to. I just want you to be okay.”

What human was okay in the era of the dragon? They practically tripped over the skeletons in the wild.

Maybe letting Dorian take a passive role in their relationship could only have manifest distressing results. Had it left him with too little confidence in voicing his needs? If the pleasure was Bull's fault, perhaps the pain should be as well.

“Well, I'm not _okay_ alright?” Nothing about the man was right or proper. He was the most wrong fellow to ever live. When had his eyes begun leaking, his chest heaving, lungs seizing? Fuck the world, he was weeping openly now.

“I can see that.” Bull was hoping Dorian might offer more by way of explanation. A chance to redeem his oversight would be gladly welcomed.

He decided to push when he was given no further comment.

“Will you please tell me why you aren't?”

Dorian choked on a sob. How pathetic of him, to lament family problems. Men of his station did not air their dirty laundry like this. They bore it like _men_ , not like children.

“Nothing more interesting than daddy Pavus letting me know what a wretched creature I am. I was forever a disappointment to him. Always been a bit of a loathsome degenerate. Nothing new, nothing worth dwelling on.”

The Bull leaned over. He let his bulk cover the trembling form.

“Please don't say stuff like that, Dorian. Don't talk about yourself that way. You don't deserve it.”

“What could you possibly know about what I deserve?”

If Dorian told The Bull he was damaged goods, would he walk out of the room and not come back?

_Do you know how many dicks I've ridden, how many cocks I've sucked, before I latched onto yours?_

“You're drunk right now. Don't make decisions about what you deserve when you've been drinking.”

“Right, just marinated gristle. Running away, getting plastered, and getting reamed. Seems to be all I'm good for.”

The qunari's great form heaved suddenly above the mage’s.

“You deserve only kindness and care, Dorian. I'm never gunna give you less than that. Even if you ask me to hurt you. I want to take care of you.”

His earlier remarks had caused pause. His recent ones were met with body wracking sobbing. He'd wipe away the mucus and the salty tears later, once Dorian was asleep.

“It's okay, big guy. I’ve got you right now. Go ahead and cry. I'll be right here when you're done. I'm not going anywhere."

 

It felt like hours had passed, it was probably only a few minutes. Dorian's crying eventually subsiding as he passed out, breathing still uneven and hitching.

Bull stroked his hair softly, rubbed away the tenseness in the tight brown shoulders, cleaned his face. The big qunari would have loved to curl up behind Dorian and wrap his arms around the smaller man, but his horns precluded the position without a half dozen pillows. 

There had to be a way to comfort him as he slept.

_Dorian was drunk. He didn't realise what he had been about to do. There was no way he'd have attempted to take his own life if he'd been sober._

Well, Hissrad could tell The Bull what he needed to hear to get through the night.

He'd been about to grab another bowl of stew, it'd been so delicious but less filling than expected. Dorian wasn't due back from the library for at least another 3 hours, probably longer if he and Solas ended up in a heated debate.

He looked up from the training ring just in time to watch the man, face broadcasting fury, muttering obscenities under his breath, stalk across the yard and into the Herald’s Rest.

Krem knocked him on his ass, told him to get his head back in the game. The Charger’s eyes followed Bull's and he eased off.

Bull had never seen Dorian get that angry about a conversation with the bald elf. It was more common they'd find a book to cite their sources and try to read over each other until one of them found the other’s passage more interesting.

They often didn't notice the argument transform into a lively discussion. They would sit down and share the book, Dorian scribbling notes as fast as Solas could dictate them.

Sort of adorable. Bull had entertained the fantasy of watching the two of them together in bed. If Solas made love like he quarrelled, he'd be a passionate and feisty lover. Though he liked Dorian exactly as he was, enough to not regret the man was neither a woman nor an elf.

The disappointment Dorian might get too drunk to have sex was short lived. Bull followed him into the tavern. He was already pulling directly from a wine bottle, practically growled at Sera to fuck off as she approached.

Bull quickly ducked back outside to supervise the rest of their training.

Maybe only an hour later, Dorian reappeared in the doorway, face transformed from angry to despairing.

So, probably not an argument with Solas.

The man was clutching a bottle in his hand, holding it like his life depended on it. He wavered as he made the walk back to his own room.

Bull quickly excused himself to follow Dorian up the stairs, surprised he turned the wrong way at the top. The qunari tailed him slowly enough, in case the mage truly didn't want company (Bull had never seen Dorian speak so harshly to Sera) but kept close enough in case he tripped or stumbled and needed help.

He observed from round the corner as Dorian sat back on the stone and drank several deep swallows from his bottle, gagged at the strong taste. When Dorian tore at his hair before throwing the bottle out into the mountains, Bull decided to approach him and ask if he needed to talk.

He was still a dozen yards away when Dorian put one foot on the ledge, he'd made it to a half dozen when the man stood on the low wall.

Close enough to hear Dorian sniffle softly, tell himself something would be simple. Dorian’s dark lashes fluttered shut as he swayed towards the chasm below.

If Bull hadn't sprinted the last few steps…

 _He would've simply fallen over backwards, maybe bumped his head a bit_. Hissrad quickly assured Bull. _Just a bad hangover and a slightly worse bruise_.

No, Dorian had clearly been about to fall forward. To _walk_ forward. There was nothing empty in his previous gestures. Each motion had been intentional.

Bull propped himself up on a folded cushion. He could tilt himself towards Dorian, approximate laying on his side while still keeping his horns aloft.

“You’re alright. You're going to be okay. I'm going to keep you safe, even from yourself if I have to.”  If Dorian was blacked out too much to hear him, Bull hoped his words would pass through into his dreams.


	2. Bumps and Bruises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bull makes good on his promise to Dorian.

Dorian didn't so much wake as startle.

He twitched suddenly into awareness, muscles tensing as his mind was rattled alert by a terrible headache and memories of standing on a ledge.

Bull tightened his hold so the man couldn’t slip away. They really needed to have a conversation about the previous night. It could wait, but letting Dorian know he wasn’t in trouble couldn’t.

Things would probably be a little weird between them for a while. Dorian was already a bit skittish about his feelings by nature. His Tevinter upbringing was more than likely to blame for his hesitance in expressing complex emotions. He was certainly more than capable of experiencing them, but struggled with communication.

The man was making progress; he was only human. He could, and should, be forgiven for any backsliding.  

“How ya feeling today, big guy?”

Dorian groaned into his hands.

“Head hurts, huh? Not surprised, you were really putting that whiskey away.”

“Oh Maker.” Dorian mumbled sorrowfully. “I am so sorry, Bull. You didn't need to deal with me like that.” He tried to hide his face under the covers.

“No worries. You weren't too bad. Just lay here awhile with me. Let's have some awkward silence until your headache goes away.”

The qunari let him stay under the blankets until he started to snore.

The next time he woke up, he'd metabolised a bit more of the liquor.

“You're- you're still here?”

“Told you I would be.”

“I didn't think…”

“We don't have to talk about it right now.” It was clear to Bull Dorian was overwrought. His kohl liner was smeared and his eyes red rimmed. “I won't ask you to if you're still upset. Can you just promise not to try that shit again?”

“I don't want to.” It was uttered as a frightened whimper.

“You don't want to kill yourself, or you don't want to promise me you won't?”

“Either? Or both?” Dorian tried them as an answer.

“See, that’s not really gunna cut it for me. Pretty much your choices are talk to me about your _feelings_ or swear I don’t need to stick you in a holding cell for the next few days.”

The mage pulled the blankets over his head again. This time, Bull tugged them back down. Dorian fought him to stay covered.

Bull sighed. “Can you at least promise you won't do that again _today_?”

Dorian nodded slowly.

“I need to hear you say it, Dorian.”

“I promise not to get drunk and try to jump off the ramparts today, okay?”

“Yeah, better than okay. Perfect even.”

Satisfied with the verbal response, The Bull released the man so he could wash and rinse out his mouth. Dorian scrubbed vigorously with his sponge and an excess of lathering oils, trying to wash away things less tangible than sweat.

Rivulets of warm water ran down his dark flesh, little bubbles of soap clung to the curves of his well muscled anatomy. His round backside framed, his cock obscured. 

“So what _are_ you going to do today?” Bull let his focus settle on the bed posts. His physical response to seeing Dorian naked and wet was involuntary, but he didn’t feel comfortable with it. If the man was still hurting, it wouldn’t be right to try and fuck him. 

“I’ll probably go back to the library. I didn’t bring the Liberalum to my room. I still have so much more of it to go through.”

“Hm. You made it sound so interesting yesterday, buddy. Have a favourite part in the book so far?”

Dorian did not turn around to answer.

“It actually has a catalogue of ships. If you can imagine. A list of each venerable, old Tevinter commander, his vessel, the men aboard, and their blood relations to each other. Who would bother to write all that down?”

“Dunno. Half the shit you nobles do doesn’t make a lick of sense to me.”

“I’m hardly the type to-” The man had become caught up sufficiently in the conversation, turned to face the erect qunari on his bed.     

“Don't worry about it. I'll handle this later.” Bull responded to the surprise in the dark eyes with a dismissive gesture.

“I shouldn't have supposed. You'll probably require a little time to forget about the scene I caused yesterday.” Dorian reached for a towel, the excitement on his face muting rapidly.

“No, baby, no. I didn't mean it like that. I don't want to take advantage of you when you're feeling vulnerable.”

“Huh. When am I not feeling vulnerable?” Thinking out loud.

“Come ‘ere.” Bull held his arm out. “I'll do whatever it takes to make you feel good. You know that.”

 

He'd been meaning to just get Dorian off with a blowjob, to cement the understanding things hadn't changed between them as a result of the previous night.

But when Dorian bent over the desk, pleaded with Bull to finger fuck him… shit, it had been too hard to resist. It was a sure bet the man would soon be begging for something more substantial.

“I n-need more, please!”

As predictable as a sundial on a cloudless day.

He was almost too tight for the three thick fingers inside him already. Bull worked them in to the the base before spreading them wide.

“More than this?”

Dorian sagged forward against desk with a plaintive whimper.

“Y-yes!”

“You’re sure? Don’t want you to do something that doesn’t feel right because you feel like you owe me.”

“Do I look like I don’t- ah!- want to be doing this right now? If I ask very nicely, will you f-fuck me?”

“Won’t know until you try.” Bull couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Fair enough.” He ceremoniously cleared his throat when Bull removed his fingers. “O Great and Mighty The Iron Bull, will you please be kind enough to repetitively ram your dick into me so hard I lose all cognitive ability?”

“Ha! You got it, big guy.”

Bull sat in the chair by the desk, guided Dorian down on his massive cock. The man tried to drop down too quickly, grunted in frustration as he was held up. If The Bull didn’t want Dorian to sit back down completely, it was an impossibility he’d be able to.

“Maker, I want you inside me.” Sometimes underhanded tactics worked well on The Bull.

“Not so fast. Give yourself a moment.” Not this time.

The way Dorian’s legs quivered with the strain of propping himself up caused him to contract so much tighter than he already was. Bull needed him to calm down and loosen up before he could impale himself fully.

“Please, Bull, _please_. I need you- all of you.”

“Fuck, Dorian. That’s… flattering.” The big man actually meant it. “Relax a little more for me, I’ll get you there.”

“I’m trying.” Dorian whined in the most appealing way. “You’re just so _big_.”

“Shucks, baby, nothing you haven’t had before.” The taught ring of muscle loosed unexpectedly and the mage went down a half dozen inches at once with a squeal. “Ohhh, now _that’s_ a good boy! There we go!” All the way inside was fantastic, slick, warm.

“F-fuuuck.You're so deep...” Dorian was clutching at the desk, using it as leverage to push back.

“Yeah? I am pretty far in there.” Bull thrusted up twice, used Dorian's weight to shove into him. “I could probably go further, if I tried.”

“C-could you possibly?” The man did not see how he could.

Bull slipped his hands under Dorian’s knees and lifted his legs up. Without any purchase to control the angle or depth, the heft of his body was enough to drive The Bull far past where he’d been before. He might have been fathoms beyond the man’s prostate, was hitting a spot so well into him he’d never even known it existed.

Dorian frantically grasped at the qunari’s wrists, unsure if he was trying to regain his hold or simply holding on for the ride.

“Guh! Fuc- shit, I- Bull, it’s so- oh, gods!”

Holy hell. Bull had never heard Dorian make noises like these before. Guttural and primal, bordering on hysterical as he thrashed wildly. 

“Too much?”

Dorian responded by wriggling in his grip, feet kicking ineffectively in the air as his head lolled limply against The Bull’s chest.

“Please…. Please, please.” 

“What do you need, sweetheart?” It was hard to pick apart Dorian’s desperate pleading when he could not see his face.

“More, more, more, more!”

Really, he was a needy bottom. Bull tightened his hold so he could lift the smaller man up before bodily slamming him back down. Dorian clawed at his forearms while screaming with abandon.

“Guessing no one’s ever fucked you this deep before, huh, Dorian?”

Dorian managed a strangled squeak while shaking his head fervently.

“Nice, I love fucking virgin territory.”

The tight heat spasmed at the phrasing. Interesting. Bull made a mental note to explore the fantasy later when Dorian was more grounded.

“More, you said? You asked for it. Open up for me, baby. I’m going to split you in half.”

The mage was well past sobbing, was just making broken sounds of devastated ecstasy as Bull fucked him open. Bull collected both of Dorian’s thighs in one broad arm so he could free a hand to spread his ass wider.

It felt amazing to sheath himself so fully. He couldn't remember the last time one of his partners had behaved like this, needed him so badly. Maybe none of them had.

“Alright, Dorian, alright. You go ahead and come when you’ve had enough.”

Bull half-expected him to come straight away. But he held on as long as he was able, trying to prolong the brutal pounding. Dorian wailed and shrieked before giving in to the waves of unrelenting pleasure. Cock entirely untouched, he blew his load from the savage fucking alone.

The qunari bent his mage back over the desk, legs useless beneath the convulsing man, so he could bang through to his own orgasm.

“There’s my good boy. Just take a little more for me...”

 

They stayed folded over the desk for a few minutes as Dorian recovered. Bull had to hold the man up while he pulled out so he didn’t drop to the carpet.

“Was that too much for ya?”

“No… so good, loved it. Can’t believe how much.”

“Glad you enjoyed yourself. I know I did. Don’t think anyone has taken me like you do. I loved fucking you like that.”

Dorian shakily collapsed back on the bed, mewled as he fingered his own gaping hole.

“Not too sore? Sure it was okay for me to slam you so hard? We didn’t have to, I would have been satisfied with cuddling.”

“It let me forget myself for a time. I… thank you, Bull, thank you. I really did need that.”

The man began to tuck back under the covers, gathering them around himself drowsily.

Sometimes Dorian was more willing to share after sex. Endorphins were a functional anti-depressant for him. It might be the wrong time to ask, but The Bull was ever an opportunist. He could back off if need be.

“Well, now that you’ve remembered, and as you’re so grateful, are you more receptive to hashing some shit out?”

“You don’t want…” He’d already been told it was the wrong tree to bark up. Dorian’s brows creased even as he relented. “My father wrote the Inquisitor.”

The words did not match the ominous tone.

“You two don’t get along, right?”

The mage had indicated as much the previous night.

“He… Halward and I haven’t always seen eye to eye, no. I’ve never been of a mind to sire him the grandchildren he wanted. Nor to wear the oppressive, slave-stitched mantle of House Pavus.”

“Can’t really imagine you sticking it in a woman. Or wearing something as passé as a floor length mantle. I hear capelets are more in fashion these days.”

Dorian laughed through his nose, bemused and amused at Bull’s joke.

“...Precisely.” He continued. “My proclivities have always been a source of consternation for my father. I’m not terribly fond of his owning other people, either. I tried in my youth, I did, but I don’t want to live my life the way he wants me to.”

“I can understand that.” Being a mindless killing machine was an impossibility for The Bull though the Qun had demanded it of him. “What’s he want from you now?”

“I confess I really don’t know. He says he only wants to talk, for me to to meet with a family retainer. Last time he caught up with me he had me dragged back to Qunaris in chains. All my food and water laced with magebane, a veritable prisoner for months in a windowless room while he tried to figure out what to do with me. I tried to starve myself but self-preservation kicked in. I thought I could wait him out like I had so many times before. But he...”

Dorian trailed off. Voice threaded through with misery.

“That’s terrible. I’m sorry you had to go through that.” Seheron had been hard, it would have been harder alone. Would he have survived, if his very tama had been pitted against him?

“He was going to- he wanted-” Dorian’s eyes fell shut. Bull did and did not want to know what he might say next.

“What?”

“ _Blood magic_.” A shuddering breath.

Bull joined Dorian on the mattress. He'd asked, so now he was responsible for guiding the mage through. If he took Dorian apart, he had to put him back together.

“Talk to me.”

“He was going to try and change me, practically lobotomise me. The ritual has such a small chance of working. If it hadn’t? He'd have ruined me, Bull. He'd have destroyed any semblance of who I was. I'd be little better than a doddering imbecile. No thought, no will, probably pissing and shitting myself.”

The desire to jump made more sense now.

“I'm not so bad as I am, am I? I'm not so loathsome you'd take that risk, right Bull?” The rising inflection in Dorian's pitch pierced through Bull’s being.

“No, Dorian. You're perfect like you are. I promise you are.”

“But I'm not! How else could he consider _that_ an option? That's evidently what I deserve. I told you you didn't know.”

The poor, sweet man.

“You're a good boy, Dorian.” Bull could only use the language they'd become accustomed to. “You try so hard. You don't have to. What you give… it’s so much more than enough. You’re here, with us, you’re fighting the good fight.”

“It's not good enough.” Dorian covered his eyes with his hands.

“Hey, now. Why not? Cause you're feeling good for once in your life? I told you already that's on me. Can you let me take some of that blame?”

Dorian shook his head against the pillows.

“You trust me right? I'm saying it's alright for you to be yourself. There's nothing wrong with what we're doing. If your Maker wants to punish anyone, it'll be me. Okay?”

The man peered out from under his fingers.

“I swear to you: you're a wonderful person. And that's coming from a Qunari. We know all about self denial. You really are a good boy. You're the best.”

Dorian continued to frown.

“What can I do? How can I prove you're okay? If I could beat the ever loving shit out of your dad I would. Do you want me to? He's the one who should hate himself, not you.”

The offer, violent as it was, turned the frown upside down. Much better.

“No, I should go with the Inquisitor and hear what his messenger has to say.”

“Want me to go with?”

He'd definitely feel much safer with The Bull close by. There was no way he'd bring him into The Gull and Lantern, though. If it was a trap? Neither his father nor the Venatori would be forgiving of a Qunari fucking an Altus.

“Can you come with me to Redcliffe? But wait outside when…?”

“Sure, Dorian. Whatever you need.”

“Thank you.”

“Hey! We could make it like a mini-holiday! I'll bring along some wine, some treats, we’ll sing songs ‘round the campfire, bet even the Inquisitor will join in. Doesn't that sound fun?”

It actually did.

“Yes to the wine, a resounding no to everything else.”

 

The Bull let Dorian get dressed and head out to the library before he began bathing. It let the mage know his promise to stay safe was respected at face value. It was worse than useless to demand a promise and then treat it as unreliable.

With Dorian out of the room it was finally possible to process his own emotions. Bull permitted himself a full three minutes of free falling tears before rinsing them away.

He very much appreciated Dorian how he was. The man's desire to be loved and looked after had not initially scanned as daddy-issues, but in retrospect Bull probably should have called it. Hindsight was always perfect, it was more important to log new information and continue moving forward.

It wouldn't be easy, but he could help Dorian through this.

 

Dorian did not immediately go to the library, opting instead to head for the Rest. For once, it was not his intent to fall into a drunken stupor.

He'd taken a few coins from the hiding place behind his dresser and went to pay Cabot for the whiskey.

“And can I have a pot of tea and some pie?”

The dwarf served him before moving on to the next man at the bar.

He knocked quietly on Sera’s door, juggling the apology gifts in his hands. It was possible she didn't want to see him after he'd shouted at her so unfairly.

“I'm sorry.” He told her when she answered.

“Yep. Had a feelin’ you would be.”  She stepped back to let him in.

They sat quietly on her ledge.

“You know you _can_ talk to me ‘bout things other than booze and boys, right? Sad’s not a good look for you.”

Solas had pegged the man's friends correctly.

“I… I'm dealing with some familial problems.”

“Yuck. Big, scary nobles, aren't the rest of you? Want me to make them a little ‘go-away’ present?”

“You mean bees in an exploding jar?”

“Doesn't have to be bees. Oooh! We could use hornets. What’dya think?” She was too excited about the prospect.

“Very tempting. Thank you for the offer. I don't think that will solve my problems, though.”

“What? What problem can't be solved with hand grenades? I've never heard of one that couldn't.”

Dorian told her as much as he felt comfortable. Condensed it to a version which only included his father disagreeing with his sexual preferences and work with the Inquisition.

“Fuckin’ rubbish, that's what that is. I like boys like you, decent enough to leave more girls for me.”

The man laughed hard.

“Yes, I'll leave all the women of Thedas to your irresistible charms.”

“Not all of them. You can keep the bitchy and stuffy ones.”

“Well, I don't want them either... Anyway! I’m heading out with the Inquisitor and Bull soon, to meet with my father’s retainer. Hear what he has to say for himself.”

He wanted her to come with them to Redcliffe but couldn't figure out how to ask.

“I wanna go with you. If you don't mind. I'll even behave myself.”

“Oh, don't you _ever_ do that on my account.”

 

Already feeling more confident, Dorian sought out the Inquisitor and let them know he'd be ready to leave in a few days. They were glad he'd have Sera and The Iron Bull along for moral support.

With an unweighted conscience, he returned to the library to resume his studies.


	3. Cuts and Scrapes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party plays terrible games. Bull explores Dorian's virginity kink.

The party headed out after the heat of high noon passed.

Dorian's warm fuzzy feelings were only just beginning to cool into nervous dread. He'd been woken by The Bull’s tender kisses. Not feeling obligated so much as horny, he returned the greeting with a slurping blowjob. He had been thoroughly rewarded for his efforts by two massive fingers, an inhumanly long tongue. 

Now he couldn't stop fidgeting on his horse. He wanted to hop off and sprint back in the direction they'd come. Maybe Bull would follow him and give him permission to chicken out.

But he had asked Bull, Sera, and the Inquisitor to come with him. How rude would it be to waste their time by acting like a scared child?

“Just keep moving forward.” He muttered under his breath.

“Say something, Dorian?” Bull turned, the man was on his blind side.

“No, nothing at all.”

They were all a bit tense, though they'd only been riding for a few hours. No one was sure what to expect. For all they knew, they might be wandering into a Venatori plot. The Inquisitor insisted everyone be extra cautious.

Dorian had been in and out of bed all night, half-forming reasons why he should probably go alone to The Gull and Lantern. Eventually, The Bull had become sufficiently bothered with his pacing, he was pulled back under the covers and penned in by a large arm.

_“You're not going to be very helpful in a fight if you're exhausted. Get some rest and we can talk about whatever's worrying you in the morning.”_

They hadn't quite made it to having a discussion, likely by Bull’s design.

“Anyone wanna play a game?” Sera looked around, hoping to lighten the mood.

“Yes… well, maybe. What did you have in mind?” Her games could be fun, but Dorian had learned she was capable of trickery.

“Okay, so it's called ‘Never Did I Ever.’ Hold up your hands like this.” The elf held one hand up, fingers extended from the palm. “We take turns saying things we've never done. If you've done the thing someone hasn't, you've got to put down a finger. First one outta fingers looses.”

This was the sort of shit she'd be into.

“Hell, yeah. I'm in!” Bull quickly put up his more complete hand.

“This sounds dangerous.” Dorian was hesitant in bringing his ringed fingers up.

The Inquisitor decided to play along as well.

“I'll start.” Sera grinned wickedly. “Never did I ever sleep with someone and not know their name.”

Bull and Dorian folded a single finger each.

“Mating sheds.” The qunari offered, maybe with a wink.

 _Dirty alleyways_. Dorian did not offer, pursed his lips.

The Inquisitor advised they'd never participated in an orgy.

How did they define an orgy? The Bull wanted to know.

More than four people, selves excluded. It goes masturbation, sex, menage trois, foursome, orgy.

“So five total? Not had the pleasure yet, Boss.”

Dorian huffed and lowered a second finger.

“Me? Can I go?” Bull was almost bouncing on his saddle. No one raised objection. “Never did I ever, shit, what haven't I done? Okay, okay. Never did I ever spend more than a whole day in a library on purpose.”

Again, Dorian was the only one to lose a digit. Three for three and quickly flushing dark red.

“Is this going to turn into a game of pick on the mage?”

“You go, then.” Sera snickered.

The man considered long and hard. He wasn't a particularly well behaved person at the best of times. He only had a thumb and forefinger left.

“Never did I ever…” Anxiety inducing. He tried to play off the dead air for theatrical effect.

The competitive sort, he wanted to strike the others out with one go. There had to be something he hadn't done they all had. Even if preposterous or inane, there just _had_ to be.

“I've never told someone I loved them and meant it.”

As expected, all three of them lost a point. His triumph was short lived when his companions regarded him gloomily.

“ _Never_ never?” Sera sounded tearful. “Not even your parents or a school friend?”

It wasn't all that common for the Altus class to exchange such sentimental drivel. Families in Tevinter were not knit together from Love and fennec farts. They were the end result of charted, calculated breeding programs. From his early discussions with Bull, he surmised his own upbringing was closer to the Qunari's rather than any Ferelden's. 

But, he knew his gambit would pay off because he heard Bull toss the words around like they were bocce balls. The big fool was damnably sappy. 

_“Aw, I love you guys.”_

He was forever saying it to his Chargers, his dracolisk, the Boss after they fought dragons together. There was no room for doubt, he meant those words when he said them.

And Sera? She was forever saying and doing as she pleased.

Dorian never heard the words said by either of his parents, to each other or to him. Maybe Aquinea had- to her little dogs, or in reference to one of her many sleek ball gowns.

As for friends? He had always been precocious. Whether due to innate ability or his tutors’ coercion, he stood well out among his peers. He didn't make _friends_ in the Circles he'd attended. He'd been expelled a number of times for fighting (duelling, he insisted, but the headmasters never took his side) because he had a hard time getting along with other students.

By the time he was old enough to realise some people did use the phrase without pause, he'd largely outgrown the need to express affection freely.

“I think I may have had a toy duck I really liked once. I recall saying I loved it. I wouldn't count that, though.”

“But you say it about yourself all the time!”

Low-fucking-blow. If it had been Sera’s mission to drench the party in utter discomfort, she had succeeded.

This was meant to be his trump card. Not an invitation to a pity party. Why the hell did they think he hadn't kept in contact with his family back home, anyway?

“This game sucks.” Bull decided.

“Yeah, it’s shite. Sorry I suggested it.”

The Inquisitor nodded.

“Vishante kaffas… You're all a bunch of bastards.” They had actually gotten him invested enough in the game to play and win. He'd sacrificed an intimate detail to even the score. Now they all wanted to quit when he was losing.

They felt bad for him? _Yay_. It didn't unring the bell.

Bull could tell Dorian was about to start sulking. He would have thought he didn’t want to play Sera’s game- he’d nearly had a panic attack because of it. So spooked by the first few rounds, he completely overlooked the non-sexual, non-romantic nature of the bait Bull left out for him.

 _Well, I've never gone more than a whole day without bathing on purpose; So? I've never written a report about my friends and sent it to a seedy spy network; At least I've never had to walk sideways through a doorway because it was made for elves..._  

“Let’s play Truth and A Lie.” The Bull proposed before the man could begin brooding in earnest. You didn't have to keep score, so there was no winner or loser. Exposing personal details wasn't mandatory. “We used to play it all the time when we were training to be Ben-Hassrath to hone our skill.”

“That sounds kinda fun. How do we play?” Sera was still watching Dorian sadly.

“Simple rules. Someone gives two facts, one true and one false. Then everybody else gets to guess which is which.”

The Inquisitor approved of the game. It would be hard to warp.

“I'll get us going.” Bull contemplated his ideas. Dorian didn't need to be dragged out of his shell, just shown something outside of it he wanted. “One: Ben-Hassrath don’t actually feel pain the same way other creatures do, we undergo a procedure to deaden our nerves. Two: Qunari females have been known to birth ogres under the right conditions, 30 or 40 at a time. What’s real and what’s not?”

Dorian stared at him for a moment, his lips twitching into a grin, before he flicked his fingers together and shocked Bull with a small static jolt. The ensuing yelp had the other two giggling.

You could always count on a brat to be a brat.

“I can’t imagine the conditions for two to be true, but I think I’ve just disproved one.”

“That’s cheating, Dorian.” He didn’t actually mind now his mage was smiling. “But you’re right, Qunari broodmothers do actually produce ogres. I won't elaborate, it's… its grisly. Want to go next?”

“Pass for now, please.”

“I’ve got a good one.” Sera’s eyes ricocheted around the group. “One: I was born with teeth. Two: I was born with a tail.”

Bull almost fell off his mount from his howling. There was nothing in the rules barring personal exposure.

“You… you weren’t… there's no way either…” Dorian’s expression was one of horrified awe.

Sera giggled madly before leaning forward on her horse to flip up her skirt. Unmistakably aligned with her coccyx, just above her leggings, was an oblong scar.

“That's only what they've told me.” She let her skirt back down.

“Fucking amazing.” Bull wiped under his eye. “Got one for us yet, Dorian?”

He did not appear to have regained his composure.

“I… I really want I call nug shit on you, Sera. Did you manage to shoot yourself in the ass with an arrow and now you're putting us on?”

She hummed pleasantly, happy she'd managed to stump the academic in him.

“You may never know, and that just burns you up inside, dunnit? Either way, I got you to look at my bum.”

He shook his head as if he might rattle the image out of his mind. Regardless of the credibility of her claim, he still needed two ‘facts’ of his own.

“Okay. I truly don't think I can top yours, but I'll give it a try.” His eyes lit up, flickered briefly towards Bull. “First: there is an unmarked painting of Koslun in the Circle at Carastes. Second: there is a secret statue of him in Neromenian.”

“Now I _absolutely_ call shit on both of those so-called facts. You know kossith aren't the same thing as qunari, right? You'd have no way of knowing it was him if it isn't marked. Unless he's slumped over with a spear in his back.” Bull tried to recapture his eyes and read his face.

Dorian's expression remained impassive as he looked straight ahead.

“Oh? I didn't actually know that about the kossith. But that's not common knowledge, especially not in Tevinter. Regardless, I do know it is Koslun.

“You couldn't know that.”

“Care to wager I'm lying?”

“Yes! You're totally full of it.”

“Who's Coleson?” Sera tried to figure out why his image was unlikely to be found in Tevinter Circles or squares. The Inquisitor shrugged at her confused glances.

“What will you give me when you find out I'm right?”

“When you prove it's Koslun and not some random Qunari, I'll give you anything you ask for.” Bull was completely confident Dorian didn't have the evidence to back up his claim.

“Really? _Anything_ I want?” Dorian tugged his beard pensively. “I want… you can't go shirtless in public for a week.”

An odd and obnoxious request.

“Yeah? Well, when you can't prove it, you have to go pantless in public for a month.”

Dorian barked an unexpected laugh.

“ _Ahem_. It _is_ him. It was still there last time I went by. It's the mural at Carastes, by the way.” Dorian's dauntless grin showed the man hadn't made an error.

“Crap.” Did The Bull own enough shirts to get through a week? “How do you know if it’s unmarked?”

“Because I painted him there, of course. I read about him in a world history book and thought the act so very transgressive. Our instructors never did notice any of my artistic contributions. Unfortunately, I did render him as a qunari.” 

“You… you're a little shit, you know that?”

 

The Inquisitor respectfully asked them to stop playing games for a while after their wager. It was apparent none of them could be trusted not to take things to a personal level, no matter the conditions.

When they stopped to make camp for the night Dorian backpedaled, advised Bull he didn't have to wear a shirt if he didn't want to. It had been too humorous to prove him wrong when he was so convinced he was right.

“A man's only as good as his word. But I'm going to find some shirts uglier than sin and make you regret being a brat. You're the one who has to been seen with me.”

The man went pale. He hadn't anticipated how the bet might backfire when he'd made it.

This, right here, was why Bull’s tama had always cautioned her wards to be careful what they wished for. Mortals could inflict as much suffering as the worst intentioned demon when they were of a mind.

“You're joking, right?” 

“Nope. I've got a tunic back home that will make you wish you were colourblind.”

“What have I done?” Dorian bemoaned his fate.

As he was a man (or beast, depending on who you asked) of his word, Bull had brought along the wine and treats he'd promised. The four of them sat round the fire to drink, eat, and barter tall tales.

Dorian occasionally appeared to check out of the conversation, the corners of his mouth strained down in apprehension. Probably embroiled in imaginary arguments with his father’s retainer.

The Bull wanted to regale them with the story of Koslun and the bees, figured Sera might appreciate it. He didn't reword the allegory to make it more mage-friendly, attempting to lure the preoccupied man from his thoughts.

“Maybe the Ashkaari had no business picking flowers.” Dorian snipped at the end. “Maybe he deserved to get stung for lollygagging. Isn't that what the Qun would say?”

“Somehow don't think that's the moral of the story.”

“By all means, please tell me what you think the moral is, then.”

He wasn't thick enough to fall into that trap. He only needed Dorian's attention, not his ire.

“Better idea. You tell me what they teach you guys in the Circles up North about us?”

Dorian was extraordinarily intelligent, but his mind worked faster than his mouth. So easy to influence the man’s attention if the subject was changed without warning.

“Ooh, yeah! I've always wanted to know. Did _they_ teach you how summon people back from beyond the grave? That shite’s full on Tevinter Terrible.” Sera crossed her eyes while moaning like the undead.

“Well, I didn't wake up one morning with the knowledge already in mind. We can't all be idiot savants.”

“Ha! Maybe some of us just have to settle for being idiots.” The Bull chuckled.

“Are you insinuating I am an idiot, Bull?”

“Nope!” The qunari quickly assured. “I value my life. Don't want to get my horns burned off or a lightening bolt up the backside.”

“You are both so incredibly mistrustful of magic in general, aren't you? What exactly is it you think we mages do when your talentless backs are turned? No, wait, I remember. ‘Bust out’ into demons, wasn't it?”

“It's nothing personal, Dorian. I've just seen what magic is capable of doing when it's not properly controlled.” Bull wasn't worried about _Dorian_ ceding control to a malevolent spirit, he was far too repressed.

“How could I not take such a statement personally? Me and my gifts, we are not disparate entities.”

The Inquisitor quickly stood to excuse themselves. It was getting late. They didn't mention the conversation seemed like it was about to spiral out of hand.

“I know what Sera is afraid of. What about you, Ser Ben-Hassrath spy, sudden expert on self-control?” Dorian continued when it was just the three of them.

“You're pretty scary when you want to be.” Sera chimed in. “Downright terrifyin’ when you get that evil laugh going, shooting fireballs out your arse.”

“I have _never_ shot a fireball out of my ass in my life.”

She chose to ignore his scandalised protest. “And the waking nightmare you sling around when we're fighting? When you caught me with it, I all but pissed myself.”

“It's not my fault you saw what you saw, I told you not to pop up in front of me like a deranged gopher.” If she tried that with Bull, she'd be cleaved in twain. “And it is not that bad. We used to cast it on each other in the Circles as a prank when we were children.” Despite his assertion, the man shuddered.

_Covered in thousands of spiders._

“You didn't answer the question.” Bull tried to reign the discussion back in.

“What did they teach us? About Qunari? Ignorant savages. Proving them right, incidentally. They also taught us precisely how not to _bust out_ into demons.” Now the mage’s arms were crossed in front of his chest petulantly. “I suppose neither of you believe me. You're so poorly educated!”

“Hey, big guy. You know I think you're hot when you're setting stuff on fire. Besides, it's not you I'm worried about. You're so tightly wound I can't imagine a demon getting into that head of yours edgewise.”

Sera snickered. “Right? Unless you were pissed. No need to worry, then, not like that's all the time, right?”

Dorian scoffed. “Do you even know how possession works? Sip of wine and- poof!- twenty five years of training goes sailing out the window? Neither of you know a damn thing about magic or demons.”

It would take more than life-threatening distress for Dorian to allow a demon the right of possession.

Bull saw Dorian was getting upset.

“Yeah, you've got us there. We know remarkably little.” Bull could always soothe the man by admitting he was dumber than him. They'd been teasing, but it was time to step back. He never wanted Dorian to feel genuinely picked on.

“What? Are you saying I'm as dumb as you?” Sera affected the offense.

“For sure you are.” Bull dodged the thrown rock. “Nah, I'm kidding. Only, we could probably stand to learn from a guy who actually studies and knows this stuff.”

“Shameless flatterer.” Dorian beamed at the obvious line. “Though, I've considered trying to explain my research to you before. I am wondering if familiarity would cure your suspicion of magic.”

“I already told you, I don't need to be familiar with your _tool_.” The elf knew how much he hated her using that word, wanted to curtail what she viewed as a potentially long winded explanation of a dull subject.

“ _Please_ stop saying “tool,” and consider what magic can accomplish. There are benefits for you and for everyone; as the Maker said, “magic exists to serve.” Yes?”

The Bull still didn't really approve of Dorian's Maker, but was glad he had something nice to say about the man for once.

“I don't care. I like you, Dorian. Don't ruin it.” Sera leaned back into his lap.

The frank avowal seemed to please and surprise the mage. His arms unfolded to rest on his knees.

“Oh. I, um, I suppose I like you, too, Sera.”

“That all, funny boy?” She reached backwards to wrap her arms around his neck. “Coz I looooooove you. Even if I don't care for your _tool_.”

“Uhg!” He shoved her forward with a scowl.

The elf pounced on him before he could react, caught him in a headlock to muss his hair.

“Nothin’ against you. I don't like tools as a rule. Bet Bull likes your tool, though. Bull, do you like Dorian's tool?”

“Fasta vass. Stop. Saying. Tool.” He struggled to extricate himself from her wiry arms.

“Out of the mouth of idiots. I do really like your tool, Dorian. One of the prettiest tools I've ever seen.”

“Maker, not you, too.”

“Tool, tool, tool!” Sera cackled with glee even as the man managed to wrest away from her, knocking her over.

Dorian announced he was done for the night, possibly forever, with both of them, when Sera and Bull refused to stop chanting “tool”. He threw his wool shawl at the elf before retreating to his tent. 

Bull noted he was smiling as he stormed off a few shades redder than usual. Possibly pleased by Bull’s compliments? However it had been achieved, so wonderful to see the man out of his own head. 

“Think we made him angry?” Her grin was too toothy to suggest she was truly worried.

“Only a little. I think he likes the attention.” 

“Yeah, Fancy Pants does love his attention.” 

“You know us spies, if there's one thing we know how to do it's pay attention. Dorian makes it real easy for me to give it to him.” He only realised his statement could be interpreted multiple ways, beyond the superficial word play, after speaking them. An unfortunate result of making terrible puns consistently, people started looking for double meanings in everything you said.

Sera’s expression turned sour. Dorian was very trusting and very eager to make people like him. She didn't approve of anyone banging her friend and casually bragging about it behind his back. More than that even, the elf wouldn't abide anyone taking advantage of him for nefarious purposes.

“Yeah…. I bet he does. But there's a shite ton lot of you, probably means you have buckets to give.” She was giving him an appraising once over with a critical eye. “Hope not too much to consider divvyin’ it up more than one way.”

Dorian might not relish the idea of Bull and Sera discussing him so blatantly when he wasn't around.

“It’s not my intent to give Dorian anything less than he needs.” He'd try civil tactics, to be on the safe side.

“It better not be. With everyone nosing apart Mr. Magic’s motives, makes me wonder no one’s vetted the big ox more.”

Sera was good at stumping people. She'd managed to totally blindside The Bull while standing directly in front of him.

“Where the hell is this coming from? Is this your version of the ‘if you break his heart, I'll break your legs’ conversation?”

She nodded, expression grave.

“Look, I like Dorian, too, okay? I want to make him happy. There already seems to be a number of people in his life trying to make it harder. I'm not one of them.”

She pondered him for a moment.

“It wouldn't be a bad move for a Ben-Harsehole spy to get sneaky with a northern noble.” Sera wasn't as dumb as she appeared.

He held her stare, tried to communicate with one eye.

“Is that what you think I'm doing? Playing him?”

“No. Seen how you look at him.” She rested back on her forearms. “I'm just warning you not to get any ideas.”

“I never mentioned Dorian in my reports, other than in passing.” Omitting the man entirely would raise more questions than acknowledging his existence. “I'm not interested in hurting or using him.”

“See you don't, yeah, or you won't see anything ever again. Get me?” She pantomimed firing an arrow into his face. 

“Not the most thinly veiled threat I've received. Yeah, I understand you. If I fuck up, I'll gift box my eye before giving it to you.”

“Ooh!” The archer clapped delightedly. “I'll pickle it and tie it to my bow. Then I can tell people I've got Bull’s eye aim!”

Bull could now appreciate how Dorian found the propensity for puns aggravating.

“I don't want to have this discussion anymore. Can we just talk about tits and serving girls like we normally do?”

“I get to talk, you get to listen. You're a bull out to pasture now, no more tavern wenches for you.”

 

The Bull waited for Sera to retire to the other tent before collecting the shawl and following his mage.

It had seemed more polite than walking with him; Dorian had insisted on bringing two bedrolls for appearances sake, even though they'd planned on curling up together in the qunari's larger one.

There wasn't much doubt most of the Inner Circle knew they were screwing, Sera clearly had them pegged, but Dorian tried not to advertise their activities. Bull respected Dorian and his wishes.

“You still awake?” Bull whispered as he fastened the tent flaps. The sound of the fire crackling down was audible. Dorian's shallow breathing, the absence of snoring, let him know he was.

“Hm.”

“You hear any of that?” 

“Both still saying that word?” Even groggy, he sounded annoyed.

“We stopped after you left.”

Relieved he hadn't been caught wagging his tongue, Bull tucked into the bedroll alongside him. It was already warmed by Dorian's body heat.

“Scoot over some.”

The man made room for him, shifted so he could throw an arm around his bedfellow and snuggle closer.

“You're cold.” Dorian grumbled sleepily.

“You're telling me. Fucking freezing. Warm me up, then.” Bull nudged the smaller hand to his own hardening cock. The nimble brown fingers did not hesitate, stroked him to full stiffness.

“Going to go down there and say ‘hello?’” 

“No. Tired. I'm not talking to your prick like it's a person. It was off-putting the first time.”

“Aw, you're going to hurt his feelings.”

A single green eye cracked open to glare at him before shutting again.

“You're being stupid.”

“Isn't everyone stupid compared to you? You're incredibly smart.”

“Almost smart enough to tell when you're trying to charm me. You want me to suck you off?”

“Be really awesome if you did.”

Dorian rolled away from Bull and onto his back.

“I'm not getting up. You have to bring it to me.” The mage opened his mouth, but made no move to sit up for the qunari's cock.

It was a challenge to manoeuvre out of the bedroll and above the prone man without stabbing holes in the canvass with his horns. Surprisingly, once The Bull was in place above him, Dorian sucked with his typical enthusiasm.

He swirled his tongue around the massive head and around the fat shaft, lapping at the base towards the huge balls resting against his chin. He let Bull throatfuck him, ignoring his own gag reflex. When the thick cock started spurting, Dorian swallowed mouthfuls of come without complaint. 

He did not open his eyes once. He might have been feigning disinterest or he might have actually been tired. It was too dark for Bull to tell.

“Should I let you sleep or should I get you off, too?” Bull could taste himself in his thank you kisses.

Dorian mumbled something. The Ben-Hassrath tilted his ear closer. He might have caught a hint of distress in the man's utterance. Had he just overstepped a boundary?

“I didn't hear you. What'd you say?”

Now the eyes opened to look at him. 

“I said, I'm too loud.”

“Uh… what?”

“I mean I would like you to try, but I don't trust myself to stay quiet.”

That was pretty damn funny. He was worried about people overhearing the noises he made when Bull fucked him.

Well… Dorian could get pretty vocal.

“Here, spread your legs. I’ll keep you quiet.”

 

Three of Bull’s large fingers in his mouth proved to be an effective gag. Dorian hummed around them as Bull worked an oiled, mostly flaccid, cock into him. He'd be able to get it up again, listening to Dorian struggle to keep his voice down. The qunari used the now free hand to keep the man's wrists above his head.

“Just tap three times if you want me to stop, ’kay?”

“Mm-hmpf.”

The tiny sounds of pleasure were easy enough to muffle. Bull dipped his fingers into Dorian's mouth, held his tongue down to stifle the louder cries.

The stretching sensation steadily grew as the giant, grey cock swelled. He _could_ skewer his lover, pound away and see how long it took before he wasn't able to contain the screams of ecstasy, but that was not the game Dorian asked to play.

Bull remembered his earlier revelation about a possible new kink for the man.

“Should we try to find another spot no one's touched before?” Bull breathed against Dorian's ear. “I want to find all those places deep inside you, enter you like it's your first time, mark you as mine. Would you like that?” 

Dorian jerked beneath him, tried to form consenting words around the digits between his lips.

Lovely.

“It might as well be your first time. You're so small compared to me, so very, very tight.”

Bull tipped his hips forward gently, as if he really were about to deflower a maiden.

“Is that what you are, little one? Are you a good little virgin, waiting for someone to explore you? Going to let me pop your cherry tonight?” 

The big man wasn't so much thrusting as rocking, easing his plump dickhead back and forth to torment the clenching opening. Every time the ridge of the glans popped out, Bull stuffed it back in.

Dorian was getting a bit loud again, despite Bull’s attempts to fill his mouth. He was starting to writhe, trying to buck upwards and take more.

“Hush now.” The Bull commanded softly and Dorian stilled. “I can't fuck you just yet. We have to go slow, sweetheart. I need to take my time with you. Keep your legs apart and stay still, like a good boy. Understand?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Yeah, I know you do. You know how to be good for me. My good boy.” He nuzzled at Dorian's neck, nipping gingerly.

Bull couldn't remember the last time he'd been with a human virgin. He tried to avoid circumstances where he was a smaller person’s first if he could. It took effort to fuck experienced men and women, but someone who'd never had sex before? Could be a traumatising experience to start with such a huge dick.

Bull’s overwhelmingly positive experiences punching v-cards were with other qunari in the mating sheds. There was an old tamas’ tale about females being unable to conceive after their first night that he'd gotten a reputation for disproving. He'd also gained notoriety for his unsurpassed kindness towards uninitiated females. The Bull was called in to stud often as a result. 

 _Use the right tool for the job_. Bull caught himself before laughing, let the breath escape slowly against Dorian’s ear.

He cherished his reputation, cultivated it. It was an honour to serve the Qun so. He adored imekari, nearly as much as he loved creating them, even though he'd always been a bit bummed they'd grow up not knowing their sire. 

In his mind, fun with virgins was intrinsically tied to knocking them up.

They probably should have discussed what Dorian found alluring in the fantasy before Bull decided to blindly charge forward with it. He didn't seem to be mucking it up too badly, but it'd be nice to have a better understanding of the game instead of making up rules as he went along.

If he had to take a wild stab in the dark (ha ha), Bull would say it was probably the bizarre association many human beings made between celibacy and purity. The Bull had met some chaste dickweeds in his life, as well as some golden hearted whores. The parallel wasn't reliable.

He'd give Dorian the option to dictate the roles they played.

“Is this alright? Are you certain you want to give yourself to me? I want to claim your flower, but I need you to be sure.”

The man made demure, heavy-lashed eye contact before moving his head up and down.

“Thank you. We’ll go slow, okay?” Dorian's thighs inched apart further. “May I go a little deeper? It won't hurt, I promise. I'm gunna be very gentle. Sweet thing, you no idea how wonderful I can make you feel. But you're about to.”

For Dorian is was totally about the connotations of purity, the fantasy of being unsullied enough to share himself without shame.

Bull released his wrists but he kept them where they were, to prove how well behaved he was.

The large hand roamed down, to caress his face, trace his throat and collarbone, slide along his sternum. It paused before drifting to the side, the thumb rubbing at his nipple using only a hint of pressure.

Dorian's little whimper morphed into a muted moan as a forefinger joined the thumb to roll his flesh between them.

“Are these sensitive? May I play with them?” A few tugs had the man struggling to keep still on the bedroll. Bull kissed the nipple before taking it in his mouth to suck lightly, teeth barely scraping the skin. Dorian’s legs pressed against his sides, trembling, until Bull pulled away with a final suckle. “Don't be scared, little one. I'll take care of you.”

Being with The Bull was so unlike anything Dorian had experienced before. Not just in terms of the qunari's size (he hadn't even thought such an endowment was possible prior); the pain never outweighed the pleasure, he wasn't treated like he was dirty for enjoying himself.

Bull was part way in. He kept his thrusts shallow, revelling in the difference of sensation. Nearly a third of his cock in the taut warmth of Dorian's narrow passage, the rest felt cold and neglected.

When he wasn't getting fucked to pieces, the man was remarkably snug.

“You're still too tense for me to go all the way. How can we loosen you up?”

He skirted a finger around the tight hole, trying to wedge it in alongside his cock. Dorian's head snapped back. Kicking and keening, he rapidly tapped twice before Bull could pull the offending digit out.

The Ben-Hassrath skimmed over his expression and posture to ensure he'd meant to tap only the two times he had and not add a third. He settled his hand on the bedroll beside Dorian's head to brush the knuckles against his face.

“It's okay, I won't do that again. Don't know what I was thinking. I'm sorry, little one.” He peppered Dorian's cheeks and nose with apologetic kisses. “I'll find another way to open you up.”

Dorian sucked the fingers in his mouth, letting him know he was forgiven. Bull rumbled a laugh as the man's tongue worked around and between the digits in an endearing facsimile of the earlier blow job.

“My sweet thing, you can't get come from me that way. Didn't you know that? Don't fret, you'll get my cream soon enough.”

Sure, sometimes Bull teased him. But it would have been weird if he didn't. They gave each other shit over everything. Given his beliefs, why should The Bull treat fucking like it was anything other than a normal part of daily life?

Dorian whined insistently. Soon enough never was.

“Shhh, Dorian. Keep sucking, sweetheart. You're doing so great. Your body feels amazing.” In and out so slowly, so carefully, at both ends.

Bull probably didn't give a crap whether or not Dorian stayed silent. He probably would have preferred the man to shout his name at the top of his lungs. Dorian had made the rule he must stay quiet, Bull was merely helping enforce it.

He had told Dorian he didn't have to pretend with him, if he didn't want to.

A good boy. His good boy. That was what The Bull called him, that was so resolutely what Dorian wanted to be. The praise was intoxicating- made him feel dizzyingly proud. He could make believe for a few minutes he was worthy of compassion.

The languid rhythm was hypnotic. Dorian did not notice the fat prick sliding forward an extra hair’s breadth with each thrust until his ankles were hooked over Bull’s hips. 

“I'm impressed, taking this whole cock on your first try. You did so well relaxing for me, sweetheart. You're taking me so deep. Just relax a little more if you can.” 

Dorian took a few steadying breaths through his nose, gave Bull his total compliance. After his finger faux paux, The Bull had kept his lips by Dorian's temple, to whisper encouragement and praise. Very nearly all the way in, he sat up to admire the willingness and reverence in Dorian's eyes.

“Okay, good boy. Let's find some virgin soil. Help me find your sweet spots, little one.”

Bull was balls deep now, working a few tentative angles to explore the slickness around him. Dorian let himself be filled and spread.

It shouldn't be enough to make Dorian come. Despite the massive stretch Bull’s body asked of his, as promised, it didn't hurt at all. He really was true to his word. It wasn't even overwhelming like it sometimes was with the qunari, either. A steady, steep build up of pressure and pleasure like tiptoeing towards orgasm.

Filling up: with Bull, his adoration, with gratitude, with desire, with bliss…

Oh, if only Dorian's first time had been like this...

Bull watched the focus wane behind the dark gaze. Brows arched together, hair ruffled from Sera’s assault, expression so incredibly trusting…

“My beautiful, good boy.” A tender hand on his cock, pulling gently. “This is what you deserve, Dorian. Let's see you come.”

With a tiny sob, lower lip trembling against the large fingers, Dorian overflowed and spilled across The Bull’s hand.

“There we go.” Bull continued stroking the prick until it was limp, Dorian's toes were uncurled, his shaking subsided.

Certain he had carried the man through his orgasm to it's absolute conclusion, Bull could concentrate on his own pleasure.

His memories had continued to circle around the mating shed and the women he had in it. He had no basis for assuming Dorian would be onboard, yet also had no reason to think he wouldn't be.

“Open up nice and wide for me now, baby, I'm going to seed you, pump you full of imekari. Give your father those grandkids he wants so bad.”

The man's squeaking, wide eyed surprise at being told he was being bred made it hard to resist the temptation to slam him into the ground. Bull did not speed up, maintained his easy pace, licking Dorian off his hand, until he finished again.

The Bull wasn't really sure why he said it, anyway. Maybe just for shock value, to make light of the Pavus family patriarch and his unrealistic obsession. Or maybe he said it because it really did turn him on.

He knew Dorian typically didn't like surprises, and the man had already come, so maybe the former could be ruled out.

Either way, the mage didn't bite him or kick him off. He merely continued to whimper as Bull’s throbbing cock squirted a few fertile globs into him.

 

“How was that?” Bull gave Dorian the use of his mouth back after a dozen ragged breaths. “Thought I might have been picking up some vibes the other day.”

He'd gotten the man to come- but that wasn't conclusive proof he'd struck the right chord or missed the mark entirely. They'd seemed to be on the same page. It might have been just weird.

“Not bad or- or _weird_ if that's what you're asking.”

It had been precisely what he was asking. Bull nodded.

Dorian coughed awkwardly while wiping his eyes, a bit of saliva from his chin. “It was…” he wrinkled his nose thinking of the right word, “different?”

“So long as you didn't hate it.”

“Is it important to you? Or were you just trying something new?” It would be crushing to learn Bull preferred inexperienced lovers. 

For a moment he thought Dorian was asking if Bull really wanted to get him pregnant. The qunari wasn't stupid enough to think any amount of trying would bear fruition.

“Huh?”

 _Duh. Of course, the virginity thing._  

Not like they'd spent the last thirty minutes building on the kink or anything. Dorian, grateful for the chance to live out his own fantasy, just hadn't begrudged Bull his own. Maybe The Bull was an idiot.

“Oh, I get you. Not really. If I had to pick a preference, I'd like to know I wasn't going to hurt someone. Takes a lot of blushing maids and lads out of the running. I'm not exactly petite.”

“Are you implying I'm easy?”

“Dorian, I can tell you with complete honesty: you are one of the most difficult people I've ever met.”

“If I'm difficult, then you're impossible.”

“Just saying. But, yeah, probably.”

They were cuddling back up under the cover, Bull pulled the cord to cinch the fabric around them. He lifted Dorian up onto his stomach so the smaller man could sleep on top of him.

The pair had yet to find a position which worked perfectly for them. At least with this one, Dorian was spared the majority of the lumpy and uneven ground under the thin mat.

It also allowed The Bull to wrap his arms around Dorian's waist, gave him free range to squeeze his ass and finger him. 

“Get your fingers out of there.” 

“Sore, big guy?”

It was very much not hardest he'd ever taken the smaller man. He was likely more emotionally raw than physically. Bull wanted to respect him, both mind and body, so he placed his hands on the small of the mage’s back.

Dorian's newly discovered kink was more appealing the more Bull thought about it. Innocence could be played up or down: 

It’d permit him to be gentle with Dorian when he needed it, would let them maintain a level of separation from reality, could allow for Bull to slip in a few dirty ideas of his own without freaking the man out. Once Dorian was feeling more confident in himself, they could add in the rapacious Qunari element he sometimes found appealing.

The mage came so hard when he could pretend he wasn't in control. The image of Dorian tried to the bedposts, ropes bound round his legs just above the knee so they could be pulled back, conjured suddenly in his mind.

If it took a lifetime, he'd get a finger in that ass alongside his dick. Fuck it, he'd get all four in there. Force the man open wider than he ever had while Dorian (perhaps somehow dressed as an evil Magister) pleaded with a Re-Educator (Bull had the vestments somewhere) to keep his maidenhead from being plundered.

Oh, shit, _yes_. No way on earth Bull would let him be gagged for that. He'd just have to scream himself hoarse from the invasive defloration.  

Bull's cock, lamentably spent, twitched weakly, futilely, between Dorian's legs.

The man hadn't started snoring yet. 

“Hey. Hey, Dorian.” Poking him perhaps a bit too excitedly.

“ _What_ , I'm tired.” He'd caught him mid-yawn.

“Wanna lose your virginity again in the morning?”

Bull couldn't see him change colour, but he felt his skin heat to indicate the blush.

“S-shut the fuck up and go to bed, you stupid bastard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am just sort of collecting other people's kinks and butchering them here.


	4. Old Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby Dorian through early teens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I hesitated even posting these back story bits. I have over 150 rough pages of it that I started scribbling for myself before realising its gotten out of hand. Next chapter coming soon and will pick up with the contemporary plot. I will try to splice in the back story stuff so it doesn't get too off topic.

One of his earliest cognisant memories.

Dorian was too young to posses the language skills to properly express himself.

He had been in his bed staring up at the moon and wishing the sky outside was bright. He was afraid of the dark, but was more afraid of his mother, so he laid perfectly still trying not to make a peep. Shadows crept under his door, along the floor whenever a servant with a candle passed in the corridor. If only one of them would stop and enter his room, light the candles on the dresser.

He had heard a noise from the closet. It was quiet, likely a mouse or a rat, but in a scared child’s mind it was a fanged monster seeking an easy meal. The desire for light was overwhelming. In the same instant he wished for the dark to _go away_ , the tapestries hanging above his bed burst into flames. Thankfully, the nursemaid in the next room noticed the smell of burning.

She ran in calling for assistance, pulled Dorian from the bed and carried him out into the hall while servants poured into the room with buckets of water. Even in the ruckus, the tiny heir to House Pavus didn't make a sound. Crying did not result in attention; it resulted in toys or treats vanishing, hands being slapped.

His father came around the corner, livid at being woken so late and demanding to know what was wrong. An irrational sense of fear filled the child. He wasn't certain what had just happened, but he knew he was the source of the commotion somehow.

The nursemaid handed him off to someone else (really, all the other slaves aside from her were a blur of unfamiliar faces).

She spoke quietly with her master, pointed over her shoulder at him. His father's face changed from anger to confusion. He entered Dorian's room and began to chuckle. He came back out and took Dorian from the slave's arms.

“Did you do that, Dorian?”

Again, he lacked all but the most rudimentary language skills. He didn't even possess the ability to lie. His father had never struck him before, but Dorian was afraid he might now. He began to weep before nodding his head. How much more trouble could he really get into after nearly burning down the house?

“My son?” Magister Pavus asked excitedly, looking around for confirmation. When he noted no other mages in the hall, he lifted Dorian up over his head with a tremendous smile.

“My son! So young and already the prodigy.”

He carried Dorian back to the master bedchambers so the slaves could finish putting out the fire and rehang tapestries. Along the way he heaped praise on his son for some unknown, impressive feat.

“What did he do?” His mother mumbled, eyes hidden behind a velvet sleep mask, when her husband joined her on the bed with their child.

“Fire!” His father exclaimed, still greatly pleased.

“What do you mean _fire_?” She hadn't moved from her side.

Dorian was sat on the bed between them. The child was baffled he'd hadn't been scolded yet.

“He lit the tapestries on fire, Aquinea. He lit the tapestries on fire!”

“And we're rewarding this behaviour why, precisely, dear?”

“Because it means he's a mage, it means he has our gift. My son, first sign of magical talent and he's engulfing the room in roaring flames.” He words effused pride, he patted Dorian on the head.

“I'm sure it was just a little spark that got out of hand.” She yawned. “He is such a thoughtless child, Halward. I merely swirled a little frost about the patio. I even waited until after my parents had taken lunch.”

“And I accidentally destroyed my uncle’s study. But we were both much older than Dorian when we first showed promise. Don’t you comprehend what this means?”

“I need to go shopping for flame-retardant furnishings tomorrow?”

“This is our _son_. Our _legacy_ in the Imperium.” His father tucked him into the blankets.

“I'm well aware he is our son, I spent twenty hours in labour so you could have him. Oh, please, don't put him here. If he wets the bed we’ll have to replace the mattress.”

“You could feign the slightest amount of excitement.”

“Is it our anniversary already, amatus?”

“Tsk! In front of the boy? Never you mind your mother, Dorian. Tomorrow, I will take you to meet with my old Circle head. He'll appreciate we need to start your schooling early.”

Dorian still wasn't entirely certain what had just transpired. If his father was to be believed, he was the sole cause of the fire in his room. He had wished for the dark to go away and it had. His father’s excitement was bewildering, though. He seemed _pleased_ his son had destroyed the tapestries. As far as he could understand, he had just been rewarded for what seemed like very bad behaviour.

 

His father's alma mater was willing to accept Dorian a few years early at the regular rate of tuition. However, he still needed to pass the entrance exams and demonstrate he possessed the skill to merit premature admittance.

Thus began his first few arduous years of intense studying. Shortcuts were for the weak, his father cautioned him. If you didn’t understand something, you studied it until you did.

It was wonderful to learn new things. Each piece of knowledge gained seemed to illuminate his limited, dim view of the world. As he was restricted to the manor and the gardens, books were his only window into a vast and largely foreign world. 

Still, Dorian didn’t much care for sitting still for hours at a time, scribbling away. 

 

Dorian sat at his desk, a dictionary on one side of his parchment, a tome beyond his comprehension on the other. It was exhausting to try and learn the literal meanings of the words while also trying to make sense of them in compound sentences.

But his father seemed so proud of him, so happy. He spontaneously bought Dorian a little wooden duck with squeaky wheels. When it was pulled along, flaps on the bottom made noises like the pattering of a real duck. It wasn't even a holiday or anything so Dorian had asked why he was getting a present.

_“Because you are very special, Dorian. You deserve a present.”_

Sort of neat. If he could get a toy duck just for existing, what might he get if he actually got into the Circle? In the end it didn't matter. His parents were paying attention to him. He already had what he wanted.

His mother took him to his eldest aunt’s and spoke at length about what a prodigy he was, listed his multitude of talents. Had any of them heard him sing or seen his paintings? Magic was just the tip of the shimmering iceberg. The Thalrassian blood beat in his tiny heart, coursed through his veins. And didn't he even look like their father? The glowing praise left his ears burning. He wasn't sure he could live up to the hype.

Definitely not right then, as he lost his place for the thousandth time while trying to look up another word. Shoot, as he was finding ‘quixotic,’ his finger slipped losing him ‘apoptosis.’

Necromancy was so difficult. Why had he thought it would be fun? So little else in his life was. He'd obviously miscalculated the simplicity of the subject matter and blown his chance of enjoying the summer.

He pushed the book away, looked for one on basic theory. He read for a while until the words blurred. Oh… he was very bored. Was it even lunchtime yet?

As if on cue, the door to the study opened and his father entered.

“Put your books away for a bit, Dorian. Let's have lunch outside today, the weather is so nice.”

His father had only started coming home from work for lunch and dinner recently. Before then, it was just Dorian and his mother sitting in silence at the polished mahogany dining table, a handful of old candles lighting the salle a manger, making it smell like stale wax.

Since hearing the Circle was considering taking him early, they ate an appreciable chunk of their meals together as a family. It was bizarre at first; he wasn't sure how to talk to both of his parents at one table. They didn't like the same things and tended to argue if he wasn't careful in choosing the topic of discussion.

He asked his mother once how they met, cautious not to imply they seemed poorly suited for one another.

_“I'm very proficient with magic. Your father's family had more influence than mine. It was a good deal for both of us. Most of my sisters were not as lucky. Aunt Viducia ran off with a cobbler, and that's why we don't visit her anymore. Uhg, Viducia. You should be glad you're an only child.”_

Dorian only had her say-so in evidence.

_“Say, how come I don't have any brothers and sisters?”_

_“You don't have any living siblings. You would have had two older brothers had-”_

He'd never know what happened to the first two potential Pavus heirs. His father had returned and that was that. Whatever had become of them, Dorian was left to to fulfill the aspirations of the Pavus line alone.

As much as he tried, Dorian had never been able to make his mother happy. He suspected there was something about him she didn't like, but she never admitted as much. He gave up his attempts and settled for trying to please his father instead.

“What's a bezoar?” Dorian asked as they took their seats on the veranda.

“Andraste help me. Don't ask that at the table! It's not appropriate.” His mother saved her praise for the public sphere, when she was showing him off. It wasn't for his benefit, he was slowly learning.

“Well, if he doesn't know what it means, how is he supposed to know it’s not appropriate?” His father shook his head.

Hoping to cut off the fight before it started Dorian hastily advised he'd look it up after they finished eating.

“I have entirely lost my appetite.” His mother didn't excuse herself before leaving the table.

 

As happens so often in early childhood, Dorian was having a hard time following the thread of logic which connected cause to effect.

He had been running along at a rapid pace down the cobblestone pathway connecting the kitchen to the servants’ quarters- Duckie’s rubber flaps pattered merrily against the stones as he was pulled along behind. Flying high on a sugar fuelled endorphin rush, Dorian completely forgot about the stern warning he'd been given not to run anywhere but the grass.

This thought was far from his mind as he played with the wooden duck, his lone friend in a year trapped by towers of difficult books. Very little thought passed through his mind as he tore down the pathway giggling like one possessed.

Suddenly, the ground wasn't solid beneath his feet, but was now quickly rising up to meet him head on. He barely had a moment to throw up a shielding arm to spare his face the worst of the blow. He bounced twice before skidding to a halt.

“Ouch.” Was all he could grumble while trying to collect himself back up.

Blood dripped steadily from his nose, over his lip and onto his new clothes. Quickly, he put out a hand to catch it. A stain would never escape his mother’s notice. She would want to know what happened, he would have to tell her about running on the cobblestones. He would have to clean up the droplets (and his nose) before he ran into her.

Dorian stood to make for the washroom. Or rather, he made a cursory attempt to stand before a twinge in his knee brought him back down.

A peek showed he had scraped the skin open. The flesh was already oozing blood. Worse than seeing the cut was realising what its visibility implied: he had torn his leggings. Brand new, very expensive, imported from Orlais.

He did not feel the pain for the panic. Hastily, he grabbed Duckie and took off for his room. He could try hiding the ripped clothes, maybe his parents wouldn't notice he was one pair short? No. The servants and slaves were very thorough in their cleaning duties. He’d have to burn them.

It was slow going on the injured knee. Only after making it back into the manor did it begin to ache. Dorian had to walk carefully to prevent the blood from dripping on the floor. He’d made it almost all the way to the stairs when a shadow was cast over him.

“Dorian?” His father’s voice, hardened a bit by concern.

Busted. He couldn’t hide the damaged leggings from view in time. His father’s eyes were immediately drawn to the rip.

“What happened?” His father asked. 

Dorian couldn’t figure out a decent excuse, so decided it might be better to say nothing at all. His silence bought him a weary sigh.

“Come with me.” The magister held out a hand to his son when he accepted he wasn’t going to get an answer. “You were running on the grounds again, I expect. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you to behave yourself before you’ll actually listen.”

They walked down the corridor back towards the kitchen. Halward huffed with the effort of lifting his son up onto a counter so he could inspect the injury. He motioned for one of the servants, asked them to fetch him some honey, linen, and antiseptic.

“Do you know why I don’t want you running in the halls or on the cobblestones, Dorian?” His father asked as he rolled up the leggings to clean the scrape. The antiseptic had a strong smell and stung fiercely. Loose gravel was brushed gently from the torn skin.

“Because I’ll fall and make a mess of myself or my clothes.” Dorian responded glumly.

“Because you’ll fall and _hurt_ yourself.” The honey was liberally applied over the scrape, staunching the blood flow.

This hadn’t actually occurred to Dorian before. There were a lot of rules to follow. It was not customary for him to receive both the rule and the reasoning behind it. The bulk seemed designed to culture (and restrict) a small boy. That it was a primary concern he should be kept whole and sound was a revelation.

“Oh.”

“I know it seems like adults ask you to do things you don’t want to just because they can. But you have to trust your mother and I only want what’s best for you. It is our duty, our responsibility, to look after you.” The bandage was wound quickly and efficiently around the knee over the honey. “We don’t want you to get hurt. You are very precious to us. We want you to be safe, happy, and healthy. Do you understand?”

“I guess I do.”

“Can you try to do a little better and listen to us more often?” 

“I can try.”

His father laughed at the frank reply. 

“Alright, then.” He helped his son back down to the floor, handed him back Duckie. “I have to get back to my study and work a little more before dinner. Run alo-” a harsh clearing of his throat, “ _walk_ along and play now.”

 

Dorian had been playing his grandfather’s sitar in the garden, hidden amidst the roses, when he overheard his father talking. His fingers stumbled on the chords, nearly causing him to lose a plectrum in the hollow of the instrument.

“Yes, I understand your hesitance, Atrius, but he will be back at a new Circle in a month’s time. Dorian is very spirited, but he is very gifted as well.”

Dorian had forced his fingers to resume their movements, had learned already at the age of nine one did not display any emotions which could be used against oneself. The man with his father was Magister Herathinos, a thoroughly untrustworthy man he'd been told.

“Ah, didn't we act out when we didn't feel academically stimulated? I heard he completely disfigured the other boy. Amulius’ spawn, wasn't he?” Too much glee for a grown man to discuss the grievous injury of a child.

Dorian had aced the written exams with ease. He hadn't been worried he wouldn't- he'd practically memorised the dictionary and his workbooks. Even the practical component of the test had been a snap. Why had he been pushed so hard to study for it? It was laughable to learn not everyone who had attempted had passed. Perhaps his father was right and he was simply special, a superior individual.

But Dorian truly hadn't meant to hurt the other boy. Regardless of his taunts, his snide comments to the older students, he really had hoped they would respect him as a peer when he won.

Though Dorian was not a boy of delicate constitution, he hadn't been one to prefer physical confrontation. He had done well for years- used his words to disparage his would be bullies. His mind worked much faster than theirs. He enjoyed cutting them down to size, watching them avert their gazes when he entered a room. His acerbic witticisms had never failed to protect him before.   

That is, until they locked him in the broom closet full of monstrous looking spiders, told him that was the proper place for an impertinent little queer.

A voice in the back of his head, sweet and sonorous, told him his father was right, he was above the the feeble minded peons who dared mock him. He was a Pavus, the strongest and brightest at the end of his line. All he had to do was give in to their baiting _once_ , show them his magical prowess matched his talk. He could prove just how much better he was than them.

_“Let’s take our little tiff to the lawn, shall we? I’ll show you what this impertinent queer can do.  Unless, of course, you’re frightened of me.”_

Really, anything to escape the dark closet, the spiders inching toward him on skittering legs.

He thought he had measured out the amount of mana he was using perfectly, just like he'd been taught. The voice kindly suggested he add just a drop more. It didn't sound like a terrible idea. More mana just meant more magic, right?

The resulting ball of fire had been huge, nearly white hot and searing. Flames tore across the grass, engulfed his opponent, scattered the ring of onlookers before reaching the dorms. The smell of burning hair and flesh, the sight of the other boy as a charred, blackened lump…

He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth to hold down the bile, refocused on the strings under his hands. Dorian wasn't _better_ than anyone. He hadn’t even recognised the goading of a ham-handed demon. His unchecked arrogance had nearly cost one of his peers their life. No, Dorian was quite possibly the worst person alive.

“Yes. Didn't you always hate Amulius?”

“An imbecile and a bore. Shame, he is a fairly influential man. Doubt anyone will want their daughter marrying a rack of roast mutton. Must be humiliating his son lost to a child. How old is Dorian again?”

“Almost ten. And he was expelled for fighting with an idiot four years his senior? They ought to revoke his seat in the senate. What's the Imperium coming to?” His father sounded almost proud, it made Dorian feel ill. Just this one time, he would have preferred disappointment.

“With every generation it further declines. Will make it easier for our lines to produce the next Archon.”

“Then you still agree?”

“Yes, I think my Livia is an ideal match for your Dorian. You can already tell she will be a headstrong bitch, just like her mother. She’s showing great aptitude at her age already. Did I mention to you…”

They passed through the garden and continued on into the hot house so Dorian did not hear the rest of their conversation.

He knew what they were talking about. His betrothal since birth had been a consistent source of distress throughout his short life. He always wondered what kind of woman he'd been promised to. Dorian prayed Livia was not like his mother, though from what he'd heard about her, his prayers fell on deaf ears.

Across the manicured lawn, a young slave was carrying a large bucket of manure to the freshly tilled flower beds. He whistled as he worked, distracting Dorian from his grim ruminations, only pausing to set the bucket down and wipe the sweat from his brow.

He was nice to look at.

“Stop.” Dorian whispered to himself, heading off the thought before it could lead somewhere problematic. Like many aspects of his life, he didn't understand why things were the way they were. He only knew it was better not to ask too many questions and play along.

_“What's wrong with boys kissing boys?” He'd stupidly asked after attending the opera with his mother._

_She had not approved of eunuchs playing women's roles._

_Dorian had found the eunuchs fascinating, had been inexplicably enthralled by the kiss between the painted ‘lady’ and the dashing hero._

  _She had not verbally responded. Her expression darkened the instant before she slapped him across the face._

_“Aquinea, he's only a child. You can't expect him to understand.” His father's intervention was always too little too late._

_“I can expect him to never say something so disgusting again.”_

The slave was more than _nice_. His hair and eyes the colour of honey complimenting his tanned skin. His lashes were flecked with gold. He had to be close to Dorian's age, but he was developing faster out of necessity. His arms already sported muscles, his shoulders broad for a child. His whistling was so carefree for one so hard at work.

With a heave, he lifted the bucket to spill some of its contents on the flower bed.

He was beautiful. Dorian would forever associate the sound of the sitar strings with his face, the reverberation of the chords against his fingers with the full curve of his candid smile.

It took a moment before Dorian realised the sound he was hearing was not the rhythmic beating of an instructor’s drum (the two were alone in the garden) but the thrumming of his own heart in his ears. His whole body ached as he felt a feverish flush seep from his clammy skin to his bone marrow.

“Stop, stop.” A little too loud this time.

The other boy noticed him, might have heard him. Quickly Dorian rededicated his attention to his music. Now the slave seemed nervous, as if Dorian had caught him doing something he shouldn't have been doing. Nonsense. No reason everyone in the manor needed to be miserable. Was it possible to convey that he wasn't as stern as his father without leaving his seat?

Dorian felt a sudden rush of excitement. He remembered a Antivan lullaby one of the kitchen slaves always sung.

He plucked a few notes before beginning.

 _I have seen the lark soar high at morn_  
_Heard his song up in the blue_  
_I have heard the blackbird pipe his note_  
_The thrush and the linnet too_  
_But there's none of them can sing so sweet_  
_My singing bird as you._  
_If I could lure my singing bird_  
_From his own cozy nest_  
_If I could catch my singing bird_  
_I would warm him on my breast_  
_For there's none of them can sing so sweet_  
_My singing bird as you._

The slave had stopped his work and was watching him intently. When Dorian finished, he clapped his hands together silently so as not to attract attention.

Dorian bowed his head in appreciation for the applause. He did enjoy an audience. He was about to play another song, something in Tevene, when he was snagged by the earlobe and dragged to his feet.

“You are not supposed to have family heirlooms outside, Dorian!” His mother, furious, loomed over him. “I can't tell if you are hard of hearing or just plain difficult. You take that back to your father’s study before he notices it's missing.”

When she'd stormed off, he shrugged at the sympathetic glance he'd received from across the yard. Dorian looked around to make sure they were actually alone before crossing the grass to the other boy. He sat on the edge of the raised flower bed and resumed playing.

“Aren't you worried you’ll get into trouble? Mistress seemed very angry.” The slave asked him, unused to seeing a direct order so casually disobeyed.

“She's always angry. And I'm usually in trouble.”

“You don't look the type.” The slave took up a long handled trowel to disperse the manure.

“Why is that?” Dorian fiddled with the tuning pegs, curious if he was missing an angle he could employ to aid in his mischief. Crying didn't get him off the hook with his mother, but puppy dog eyes had spared him his father's wrath on numerous occasions.

“You just don't.”

“Hmm, usually I have to cite my evidence when presenting an argument.” Satisfied with the tension he'd produced in the strings, Dorian plucked at them arbitrarily.

The slave heaved another shovel full from the bucket onto the soil.

“Do you only know nursery rhymes? Or do you know any dirty ones?”

Ah, he knew a good deal of songs with a great many dirty words in them. The common rooms at Circle had every instrument known to man. They also contained a number of intellectually gifted, bored young men. As soon as curfew hit, the dorms became baud houses peopled with raunchy minstrels.

One song came to mind. It didn't have dirty words in it, but it made his music instructor go very white when she heard it. His father had called the song “distasteful,” his mother “prurient.” Just the thing to prove how bad he was.

“I believe I know one which fits the bill.” It would sound better on a harpsichord or piano, but Dorian didn't have either of those outside. He'd make do:

 _There was a maid this other day,_  
_And she would needs go forth to play;_  
_And as she walked she sithd and said,_  
_“I am afraid to die a mayd."_  
_With that, behard a lad,_  
_What talke this maiden had,_  
_Whereof he was full glad,_  
_And did not spare_  
_To say, “Faire mayd, I pray,_  
_Whether goe you to play?”_  
_“Good sir,” then did she say,_  
_“What do you care?”_  
_“For I will, without faile,_  
_Mayden, giue you Watkins ale;”_  
_“Watkins ale, good sir, “quoth she,_  
_“What is that I pray you tel me?_

“Oh, I know this one.” The slave interrupted, laughing. He sung the next refrain:

 _“It's sweeter far than sugar fine,_  
_And pleasanter than muscadine;_  
_And if you please, fair maid, to stay_  
_A little while, with me to play_  
_I will give you the same,_  
_Watkins ale called by name,—_  
_Or else I were to blame,_  
_In truth, fair maid.”_  
_“Good sir,” said she again,_  
_“If you will take the pain,_  
_I will it not refrain,_  
_Or be dismayed.”_  
_He took this maiden then aside,_  
_And led her where she was not spied,_  
_And told her many a pretty tale,_  
_And gave her well of Watkins ale_

“I don't remember the rest of it, do you? I think she gets sick a few months later?” Dorian asked when he'd concluded. He thought that might be the case.

“You don't remember?” The slave let the trowel blade rest in the earth. Maybe he did but noble bearing prevented him from saying so.

“No…?”

“Huh. What would you expect to happen months after a woman decided to _play_ with a man?”

Dorian continued to pluck at the strings errantly. He had an incomplete understanding of things of this nature at best.

“Oh, Maker, you really don't know, do you? And here I thought you were supposed to be _trouble_.”

“I know, I just don't remember the rest of the song.” Dorian’s face felt warm though the sun was setting. So much for proving his deviancy.

“Right, of course you do.” He was shaking his head in disbelief. “Keep playing, I'll sing it for you. So the song picks up a few months after, you're right about that.

 _The maiden then fell very sick,_  
_Her maidenhead began to kick,_  
_Her colour waxed wan and pale_  
_From taking much of Watkins ale._  
_I wish all maidens coy,_  
_That here this pretty toy,_  
_Wherein most women joy,_  
_How they do sport;_  
_For surely Watkins ale,_  
_And if it not be stale,_  
_Will turn them to some bale,_  
_As has been report._  
_New ale will make their bellies bow,_  
_As trial by this same is known;_  
_This proverb has been taught in schools,_  
_It is no jesting with edged tools_

“It sounds like they don't really teach you this stuff in school, though. What do they teach you anyway?”

“Basic subjects. Reading, writing, logic, rhetoric, arithmetic, etcetera, ad nauseam.”

“Boring kaffas.” The slave grinned then winced as if remembering his place. “Sorry, I guess you need that stuff to be a magister.”

“No, you're absolutely right. _Dreadfully_ boring kaffas. But, they also teach us this.” Dorian snapped his fingers to produce a flickering flame. “And that's much more fun.”

“Woah! That's amazing! Can you make it bigger?”

“Um… I can, but I probably shouldn't. I did just get expelled for burning down part of the Circle grounds.”

“Look at you! You really are bad, then, aren't you?”

His ears were now as warm as his face.

“I'm Rilienus.” The slave held out his tanned and dirty hand.

“Dorian.” He took the hand in his own to shake it.

A tiny scoff followed by: “Oh, I already know who you are.”

“Because I'm in the garden, but not covered in crap?”

Rilienus grinned as he tapped the gold snake charm around Dorian's neck.

“You guys all wear dog collars like Fereldan mabari. Makes it easy to distinguish your pedigree.”

“I'm not a dog.” Dogs were better behaved than he, were regrettably trainable and broken of their bad habits.

“Aren't you? Don't you spend all day performing tricks and following commands? Unless you're a bad little doggie. Do you bite the hand that feeds you?”

“Only always. In any case,” the conversation was making him tingle unpleasantly, he needed to shift topics back to something he could understand, “I've never thought of it that way. Birthrights are useless. If I gave this to you, no one outside of these walls would know you weren't me.”

“Is that an offer?”

Dorian had been about to suggest a rather inappropriate trade, the amulet for a kiss, when he heard his mother calling him from inside.

“Run along, little doggie.” Rilienus returned to his tilling with a smirk. “I’m sure I'll see you around.”

 

“If I have told you once, I have told you a thousand times: do not take your grandfather’s instruments out of the house, Dorian.”

He suspected they'd be upset about his bringing the sitar outside again. They bought him his own (as well as a piano, a lute, two flutes, and a drum), but new instruments lacked the quality of sound old ones possessed. No history had steeped into their veneer, no wisdom absorbed into their frets, they sounded dull and sharp in all the wrong ways.

That and he knew how much his parents detested this particular rebellion of his.

It was the very reason he had taken it along to meet with Rilienus. The fellow was a master manipulator, suggested Dorian commit a lesser crime to use as an alibi for a greater one. His ability to plot was one of the many things Dorian liked about the slave, though it always made him worry Riley might be using him.

 _Wiley Riley_ , the other stable hands termed him. Dorian's first crush, his first terrified kiss. Instead of a slap after, he'd been given a warm embrace. He brought candied dates and cheese curds topped with preserves on toast to their subsequent secret meetings.

Dorian had watched him flirt with women, grab the backsides of the girls working in the kitchen. Riley was a prodigy in his own right: not with music, dance, letters, or magic- but with people. He had a gift for gab and a knack for persuasion. Truly, of the two of them, Rilienus was the more suited to be a magister.

Dorian wanted to be jealous of the girls who got to touch Riley in public but didn't have the right. There was no future in what they were doing. Exclusivity, the happiness it could offer, was as far beyond his reach as the stars.

Light drizzle broke into heavy drops, dampening their light petting and closed mouth kisses. The warm summer rains had come early, unexpectedly, thoroughly dousing them, the picnic, and the old sitar before he'd made it back inside.

Dorian was ostensibly home on holiday for Andoralis. His mother expressed she would sooner die than admit to her sisters that her disagreeable son had been ejected from his fourth Circle in just three years. He'd only been back a few weeks, but had the distinct impression his parents were already sick of him underfoot.

“There is something terribly wrong with you, Dorian.” His mother lamented as she drained a glass of wine, immediately filled another.

“There is nothing wrong with him, Aquinea. He's just stubborn. With the cruelty you display your poor mother, I've no doubt you'll be a fine magister.” His father pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

Was that a good thing? Maybe his father shouldn't be pushing his son to be magister, if it meant he needed to be unnecessarily cruel...

Dorian stood awkwardly in the foyer, rain dripping from his robes onto the marble floor. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to reply or stand there looking properly chastised.

“Go upstairs and get changed out of those wet clothes. Ah! Leave the zither with me.”

He couldn't resist being a smart ass. No point in letting his parents spend good money on his education if he let it go to waste.

“Leave the what with you, father?”

“The zither.”

“But the zither is on the mantle. This is a sitar. I play them both very well, but I prefer this one. Surely you knew the difference?”

“Vishante kaffas! Whatever it is, put it on the table and get out of my sight.”

 

It stood to reason, if Rilienus needn't be faithful, neither did he. Weren't clandestine makeout sessions and over the robe fondling enough for him? If Riley thought it was acceptable to plough milk maids like he did the estate’s soil, if he thought Dorian would wait for him to get bored of simpering girls? Oh, he had another thing coming.

At least that was the line of logic which landed him on lockdown in his dorm and now the headmaster’s office. At the time Dorian thought his reasoning sound. A week practically spent in solitary confinement had him rethinking his position internally. He’d never admit aloud he had acted petulantly, but it is sometimes hard to lie to oneself.

The calligraphy instructor had gone to the supply closet for more ink and fresh nibs. She shrieked and dropped her glass vials when she caught _that_ _Pavus_ _boy_ locking lips with yet another male student. In all her years teaching, she had not encountered a more brazen and willful child.

The older boy fled before she got a good look at him, though she was sure it was the Milphios’ son. The fleeing form was certainly faye and doughy enough. She had expected the Pavus boy would run as well. She had even hoped he would. Instead, he remained in the closet with a defiant smirk on his face.

“I suspect you're out of Nevarran blue?” He dipped a toe in the ink and broken glass, drew a line with it across the floor. “That's what this looks like.” He handed her a fresh pot before stepping over the ink smear.

This wasn't Dorian's first tourney, not even at this Circle. The third time was usually an expelling offense. He wasn't concerned in the least when they threatened to contact his father, nor when his father showed up, fuming about the lack of respect for good pedigrees, dragged him out of the building and into a waiting carriage.

“What's wrong father? I'm guessing they’d prefer being rid of me than have you donate a new wing? They'd have to put my name on it, after all we do share the one.”

“Dorian, I do not have the patience for you right now.”

“When have you ever had the patience for me?” Since losing his place in the Carastes Circle, his father made his presence scarce. They mostly saw each other when Dorian was in trouble.

The magister closed his eyes, was probably counting to ten. Then twenty. Had Dorian ever driven him past a hundred?

“What am I going to tell your mother this time? You are sending her to any early grave.”

“Come now, father, she’ll outlive us both out of spite. She can be quite capricious when she’s of a mind.”

They lapsed into silence. Dorian breathed on the glass of the carriage window, drew a crude dick in the fog.

“Are you proud of yourself?” His father finally asked.

“Not particularly. He was very ugly and, worse, not very bright. I probably could have done better. I'm very clever and very lovely, wouldn't you say?”

His father looked old as he sat back against the cushioned seat.

“Why do you do these things? You are a smart child, undoubtedly smarter than I was at your age. Don't you understand you are destroying your future?”

“My future or your legacy?”

“Your _future_ , Dorian.”

“Ah! You mean the bright and prestigious future you and mother have mapped out for me? The one where I'm married to a woman I only know enough to know I detest? Or maybe the one where I wake up every morning and drink myself semi-unconscious like mother so I can stagger out into the senate floor and lie through my perfect teeth?”

“You are so dramatic, Dorian. Please, don't speak for a while. I need to figure out what we will say to your mother about this.”

“Fantastically wild idea: we tell her the truth?”

“You know the truth would kill her.”

Yes, well, the lie had been killing Dorian lately. Perhaps it was someone else's turn to shoulder the burden.

 

“I don't want to marry you, you know.” He didn't look up as he spoke, continued to play the piano, the song his father told him to practice for their engagement party.

It was his song, his and Riley’s. They'd reconciled while Dorian was home being privately tutored between Circles. The Circle in Vyrantium had been paid off to keep his indiscretions from being disclosed, but how long could his father realistically plan to outrun who and what his son was?

Dorian stole (could it be called stealing if the owner never noticed it was missing?) some wine and met with the slave in the barn. He told Rilienus how he'd pined for him, how it was worth never becoming a ranked Enchanter if it meant he could stay in Qarinus with him.

Riley kissed him with his tongue. Surprising and exciting. It was the first time Riley put his hands _inside_ Dorian's leggings and-

Well, there was no way he could be upset with Riley after that.

Dorian had wanted to go a step further, but Rilienus refused to remove his own pants, insisted it wasn't a good idea for them to go that far.

It was not for his father to make him share the song with Livia. She didn't deserve the it. Livia was not a bird- she was a nasty little viper. Though it had been his favourite until now, he couldn't imagine playing or singing it ever again after the party.

They had seen each other before over a dozen times, but the first time they were allowed alone together. Magisters Halward and Herathinos were off discussing senatorial matters, their wives taking liquid refreshment in the drawing room. This left the couple alone in the parlour.

Livia glanced up from her book with a raised brow before resuming reading.

“Why not? I'm quite attractive and I am terribly intelligent. You should be so lucky to have me. No one gets milk without paying for the cow, you know.”

“I don't want your _milk_ and I'm not interested in tending to a cow.”

She tutted softly before putting the book aside.

“Why don't you want to marry me, amatus? Am I not woman enough for you?” Her tone was acidic.

“How do I loathe thee? Let me count the ways.”

He remembered meeting her for the first time, when she was ten and he was eleven. If she was anything like him, she was not pleased with the arrangement. He'd felt bad for her, but mostly for himself. He had told his father he didn't want to marry a little girl.

_“When you get married, she'll be nineteen. She won't be a little girl then. Honestly, Dorian, you do say the strangest things sometimes.”_

Dorian had come close to pleading with his father. He had to know that wasn't what his son meant. He'd tried being subtle, tried being direct, had graduated to generating small whirlwind scandals to make him understand.

He didn't want the life they had planned for him. It seemed so inescapable. He didn't want to be as lonely as his parents appeared. He didn't want to make a comfortable living making life unbearable for others. As glamorous as magisters tried to make their lives seem, there was nothing respectable about them behind closed doors.

Drenched in blood and misery… how could that be preferable to what Dorian was asking for?

 _Tainting, warping, spoiling._ Now he was twelve and Livia was eleven. Petulance alone spared him the lethargy of a typical young Atlus. She already didn't seem like a little girl. Her father had called it, or he had caused it, but she was absolutely a bitch.

“Perhaps I'm too much woman for you.”

He snorted a laugh but continued to play.

“Aren't we full of ourselves today? Are those mosquito bites or breasts? Even from an arm’s distance, I can't tell. _Too much woman_? Be serious! You look like a little boy.”

Livia quickly crossed her arms to cover her chest.

“Hmph! Maybe I am your type after all.”

Dorian struck the wrong note, the dissonance giving away his shock. What an amateur move. He should have kept practicing, piano was by far his weakest instrument, but instead he closed the fall over the keys.

And here he thought he'd been so discreet with Rilienus. They hid their make-out sessions in the loft of the barn, behind the hay bales. He'd have to be more careful in the future. Be on the lookout for snakes hiding in the grass.

All things considered, he hadn't been particularly cautious with his antics outside the home.

“Lucky to have you, you said? You're a prepubescent brat with more temper than tits. Oh, yes, lucky me, amatus. Lucky me, indeed.”

 

“I don't understand why you don't want to marry Livia. What's wrong with her?” Halward’s headache was intensifying. He couldn't fathom why Dorian was so set against the marriage to the girl, who was by now budding into a beautiful woman.

His father had really shot himself in the foot by having just the one child.

“Don't feel bad about the match you've made, father. Aside from her barbed tongue, Livia is a decent enough girl. Only she lacks one quality which I find non-negotiable in my prospective mate.”

“What is that, Dorian?” Poor old man sounded hopeful, as if Dorian might suggest he preferred blondes or redheads and was only being wilful, that his antics were the actions of a extraordinarily rebellious child.

“Why, I'm sure I've told you both before. A fine fat cock, of course.”

Aquinea picked up her crystal wine carafe and left the room without a word. She had perfected ignoring Dorian into an art form.

“Why would you say such a thing, Dorian? Are you trying to upset your mother?”

“No. I am not trying to upset either of you. Well, maybe a little. But mostly I am trying to tell you I don't want to marry a _woman_. I don’t want to live a life someone else has planned out for me.”

“You don't understand what you're saying, how could you? You're still a boy. If you say that in the senate-”

“Maybe I will say it in the senate. Would that displease you, father?”

“You would ruin any prospects you might have had at a career. What is it you think you would do if not take my seat when I retire? Do you expect you could live off your own earnings doing, what, playing your sitar in a market square? Living in squalor is only romantic in books, Dorian. Starving to death on the streets is no way for a Pavus to live.”

“If I starved to death, I would hardly be living, would I?”

“Why do you have to make everything into an argument? Why do you have to be so difficult?”

“You can ask that with a straight face?” Dorian raised an inquisitive brow. “I’m just presenting you with the facts as they stand, father. You are the one who seems to have a hard time grasping and accepting them.”

“And what facts exactly do you present me with? If you are attempting to prove you are a selfish and pernicious child, you have succeeded in full.”

Dorian was taken aback. How was it selfish to ask to live his own life they way he wanted to? Dorian had never asked his parents to painstakingly plot out a life course for him. He had intended to make it clear he was the way he was with no intention to conform. There hadn’t been malice behind his words. He’d been trained a little too well to mask his desperation.

“I had thought I might make a respectable living as a researcher or a historiographer. Qunari are fascinating beasts aren’t they? They would be fun to study. But, as you say, traveling minstrel sounds so wonderfully romantic.”

“So you are going to go wandering off into the jungle to get your head torn off by wild savages or you plan to hang out in taverns all day while strumming a lute for coppers? What a wonderful use of your gifts, Dorian. You have so much potential. I go over and over the last few years in my mind and I cannot pinpoint how I could have so utterly failed you as a father.”

“You act as though I’m the only honest or queer boy in the entire Imperium. I can’t speak much for the integrity of others, but I assure you my proclivities are hardly as rare as you’d like to imagine. Selfish you say? I say it would be worse for me to deprive the fine young men of Thedas the pleasures of my flesh.”

“Dorian! Where do you even get this language, these ideas from?”

“You sent me to an all boys boarding school last winter. Pretty big cock-up in my mind. Did you really think I wouldn't end up bent over a desk at least once? I'm a terribly pretty boy.”

Halward threw his hands up as if he could physically block the words from reaching his ears.

Dorian had never been bent over a desk before, though he had knelt under one more than a few times. But he was tired of struggling to fit a mould made for someone else. He was done being confused and upset. If it meant burning every bridge he had in the Imperium, he would ensure he didn’t end up with Livia or as a crooked senator.

His parents had made the choice to marry when they had so little in common. His father had made the choice to renege on his morals, default on his principles. And these had been choices. Look what it got them. Dorian was hardly the answer to their hopes and dreams. Halward and Aquinea had made plans without consulting all the parties involved. Now they were surprised to find the people around them had their own desires? Wouldn’t submit without question? They were both idiots if they had not expected resistance.

Dorian would not be stupid enough to let himself get locked in their gilded cage.

“Go to your room, Dorian. I can't look at you right now.”

The upset of being ignored for so long boiled over with the added fire of adolescent self-righteousness. He wanted to hurt them like they had hurt him. They had penalised him relentlessly for the mistake of his birth and it was time for payback.

“My room, you say? You do so often treat that like a punishment. It's really more of a retreat. I have all sorts of fun things in my room. Should I list them?”

“Dorian…”

“I have bottles of wine, at least three training staffs, the pestle from my cracked mortar, I even have the flutes you and mother were so kind as to buy me. Do you want to venture a guess what these things all have in common? They're all rather decidedly phalli-”

“Get out!” Halward was quite placid by nature, he had never roared in fury at anyone, let alone his son, before.

Satisfied he'd ruined his father's chances of pleasant dreams for life, Dorian turned on his heel and calmly strode towards the hall. He paused by the doorway, noticing the old sitar on the table. He picked it up walked out with it.

He didn't go to his room. Instead, he returned to the gardens, sitar still in hand. If he was going to be a shiftless bum playing for coppers in seedy taverns, he might as well get a head start perfecting his craft. What was his father going to do about it?

The sitar was still well tuned from the last time he played it, but Dorian futzed with the tuning pegs out of habit.

“Man, you never give up with that thing, do you?” Rilienus’ familiar tenor.

Dorian sighed, but didn't let up.

“If you want to be good at something, you have to practice.”

“That's probably why your smile always looks real. But,” he pressed Dorian's mole, “you have to get it up here, too. That's how us non-nobles know you're faking it.”

“I'm sure the nobles can tell, too. They don’t find it important for it to be real.”

“Hmm.” Sympathy without empathy. “Will I see you later tonight?”

“Probably not a good idea.”

“So that's a yes?”

He sat alone on the garden wall and played for hours, feeling high on the power of bucking parental authority. Certainly, once they realised he wasn't going through a phase, his parents would not force him to marry a woman he didn't love. They wouldn't be able to. All he'd have to do was say ‘no’ at the altar. The public humiliation would all but destroy his family's name.

When he returned to his room, he found it stripped of any and all objects which remotely resembled a penis. It wasn't any skin off his back, he actually hadn't tried using any of the aforementioned items to penetrate himself. He was just trying to get a reaction out of his father.

Maker, his poor, long suffering father. Dorian collapsed against the wall laughing until he was breathless, trying to imagine how the magister had ordered the slaves and servants to achieve the task.

_“If it could fit in a backside, take it.”_

He'd likely been more subtle, more eloquent in the instruction. Maybe he'd done the collection himself.

That would be too fantastic.

Dorian's good humour died as he closed the door to bolt it.

“What the…?”

The lock was no longer on the door, the wood darker in the shape of its outline, the bore holes for the screws leering up at him. Maybe he'd pushed his father a step too far his time.

“Fuck.”

 

It had become necessary to play hardball.

They took his bedroom lock? Dorian took the door off its hinges and rode it off the pagoda roof, leaving a swathe of destruction in his wake. Who needed privacy in their bedroom when they had private tubs?

He'd only sit on the edge of the tub, feet soaking in the water until they pruned. But he would remain locked in the bathroom for hours, to ensure they suspected he was up to no good.

When the lock on the bathroom door disappeared, Dorian took to bathing in the garden fountain- stark naked. They didn't want him to have _any_ privacy? He could truly make them regret the wish. He sang loudly to make sure no one missed his presence. Rilienus seemed to find the display amusing.

A servant was sent to escort him to and from the tubs? They would have to find him first. He'd been damn good at hide-and-seek as a child. Now he could make himself like a ghost. _Hours_ wasted trying to find him before he got bored and turned up in plain sight.

_“Oh, were you looking for me? I've been in the library this whole time.”_

Locks reappeared on the outsides of doors. Well, when the Maker closes a door, he opens a window. Dorian was only ever pious when it suited him.

The window let out onto the gentle slope of roof. With minimal effort, he could climb up onto the highest beam and go anywhere on the grounds. It was a small hop to land on the patched pagoda, then down the vines to the flower beds.

From the courtyard he could head to the wine cellars or to the slaves’ quarters. Rilienus’ door had a lock on it, that was good enough for Dorian.

He slipped on the clay shingles one night, fell off the roof and broke his arm. He'd managed to hide the injury for two days before it became necessary to disclose it.

Goodness, he was losing his edge.

His father offered him any present he could dream up if he would promise never to try something so dangerous again.

_“I don't want to marry that girl.”_

_“That is not up for negotiation.”_

_“My, but you do dream small, father.”_

Dorian’s endless efforts to wrest his life back into his own control proved futile time and again. He was beginning to suspect there wasn’t anything he could do to prove his commitment to not marrying Livia.

Only two weeks later he'd be caught with Rilienus.

 

Dorian had pouted and whined, upset that Riley was very willing to sleep with so many serving girls and hand maids, but not with him.

“I know you think I'm being mean, Dorian, but I'm not. I'm not even sure how to explain it without hurting your feelings.”

 _“_ You could at least try.”

Rilienus grumbled. “Girls are made for this, for sex with men. You're not made to have sex with me.”

The words had really stung.

“Goodness, if I'd have known you were going to recite a Chantry morality tale for me, I would have brought something to nibble on.”

“I knew you'd get upset. But you're not hearing me. I don't mean you're wrong morally, I mean your body is wrong.”

“Wow. I feel much better now.”

“Can you pretend to listen to me? Not all of us went to school to learn your-your _rhetoric_ , smartass. I mean, I don't want to hurt you.”

“Not all of us needed schooling to learn how to complete a sentence, _dumbass_. I fell out of a window and broke my arm for you, think I'm afraid of getting hurt?”

Apparently sick of trying to explain himself in words, Riley took Dorian by the un-splinted wrist and pushed his hand down his pants. Dorian had never touched the other boy bare before.

“What are-”

“Just grab it and stroke, dummy.”

Dorian complied. Under his trousers, Riley’s cock seemed to go on for a very long ways. It was thicker, harder, more substantial than the cloth led him to believe.

Seeing Dorian's surprise, Rilienus assumed he had made his point clear.

“Still want me to bend you over that crate and jam this into you?”

More now than ever, Dorian absolutely did.

He did not have any sort of template or yardstick to measure, quantify, or contextualise love. He had always assumed the feeling of falling in love could be equated to being filled entirely with another person’s soul and being, their very essence; so completely consumed by them you wouldn't have space for even yourself. An immense and sprawling feeling to fill the empty ache which comprised most of his person.

Rilienus’ cock felt as though it might be big enough to fill the emotional void.

Dorian was unable to contain himself. He fell to his knees, pulling Riley's pants down with him. He stuffed the cock into his mouth, devoured the flesh hungrily, sucking fervently.

“What the fuck, Dorian!” Riley’s legs had nearly given out beneath him, the desperate onslaught was entirely unexpected.

When it became apparent Dorian had no intention of slowing down or stopping, Riley lead Dorian forward, fists still clutching the hem of his tunic, so he could sit at the edge of the straw filled mattress.

“Shit. Take it easy, it's not like it's going anywhere anytime soon.”

Dorian felt himself twitch at the words. He was usually quick when masturbating; he had to be. The boys in the Circles finished fast in his mouth. Would Rilienus last longer? Could Dorian expect he'd be bent over the crate for an hour or more?

Kneeling was an optimal position. Dorian arched his back, swayed his hips, hoped he was adequately conveying what he wanted from Riley.

Rilienus slicked his rough fingers with saliva before pushing them down the back of Dorian's pants and into him.

The slave was right, it hurt. It hurt but it felt impossibly perfect. Four fingers were three more than he’d ever tried on his own. Dorian rocked back and forth, taking as much of Riley as he could. He was probably crying, but he sucked with greater intensity to express his desire. He wanted so badly it transitioned to need.

Dorian was preoccupied, he'd never have noticed had Riley not suddenly gone wide eyed, hand instantly disappearing from his leggings, reappearing on his shoulder to push him back.

“ _Dorian!_ ” His father, voice laden with disgust.

They were both idiots, they hadn't even locked the door.

He might have bitten Rilienus clean in half from his shock, choked to prevent it. Immediately, Dorian was scrabbling to turn back around and get to his feet. Thank the Maker he was fully clothed.

Riley frantically tucked himself away before attempting to stand.

The tension in the room was thick enough to poke holes in. The two boys standing side by side regarding the infuriated magister in terror. When he raised a hand it had only been to shake his finger in rage. In their minds, the motion could have been the start of a spell intended to rend the slave apart.

Dorian sprang around, threw his arms about Rilienus.

“Don't!”

When no firestorm was forthcoming, he peeked back at his father.

“I…” Dorian stammering, trying to produce a plausible argument, as if there was one to be made. “I-I-I made him do it. I told him he had to, or he'd be flogged.” Dorian was relatively certain his father wouldn't murder his own son, but a sodomite slave? No safe bets could be made there.

“You, slave, leave us. If you breathe a word of this, I will have you hanged for rape. Do you understand me?” Riley paused for a moment to glance at Dorian before bolting from the room.

“You don't-”

His father's glare silently conveyed enough to stop Dorian's half-formed excuse. It was quiet enough, they could both hear their own heartbeats. It felt like eons lapsed.

“I can explain-”

“Kneeling before a slave? You can explain that?”

Dorian stepped forward, wanting to approach. He could explain, he really could, couldn’t he? That Rilineus was the solitary source of joy in his life, the only thing keeping him from falling into despondency. His father's tone had been agonised, maybe he could be reasoned with. Too long in formulating a response. 

“Do you know how when most people say ‘it’s not what it looks like’ it usually is precisely how it looks? In this _particular_ instance, when I say-”

“I don’t want to hear it, whatever it is. Just get out. Go to your room. Or don't. I can't bring myself to care what you do anymore.”

“Father, please just let me-”

“Get out.” Revulsion mixing with heartbreak. “You are no son of mine.”

Worse than being struck. Fine. Two people could play that game. Dorian made a point of dusting off his knees before straightening his garments.

“Very well, Halward. I'll leave you be.”

Dorian shoved past his father and left the slaves’ quarters by the stairs rather than the window. Riley was nowhere to be seen, which was as expected. Dorian hoped he had run sufficiently far his father would not be able follow right away.   

But there was no reason they both needed to hide. Dorian was free enough to walk the grounds with impunity. 

The steward had taken to locking the wine cellar as the more expensive vintages inexplicably dwindled. Usually Rilienus picked it for him. Dorian placed a hand against the padlock, heated it until it was warping before freezing it over. The iron shattered in a spray of brittle shards.

He helped himself to what he could carry. He returned to the garden and drank one bottle. Still too aware, he uncorked another.

By the third, the taste was too much. He threw up a little of what he'd drunk in the roses before laying back in the grass. Was this a glimpse of his future to come? Was this Halward's grand legacy to the world? How _that Pavus boy_ was ever expected to become the next Archon was beyond him.

Dorian held up his hands and tried to grab at the stars overhead. He knew he couldn't reach them, but maybe he could dare to reach for something which seemed as distant as they.

How much were the rings he was wearing worth? Enough for two degenerate children to make a break for the border?

They could make a run for it, Orlais was indulgent of aberration he'd heard. It was also supposed to be nice this time of year. They could escape the hot, oppressive salt heavy air of Qarinus, settle into the cool southern breeze.

What a dashing and romantic pair they would make. Worthy of tawdry novelisation. The capital would swoon over their perilous journey, their devotion, their love which overcame adversity. The Orlesian court would accept and welcome them with open arms.

He held the fantasy until reality forced him to let it go.

“Stop.” Dorian whispered to himself, managed to suppress his wistfulness but not his sorrow.

Nothing in their previous interactions suggested Rilienus actually loved him, would say ‘yes’ if he asked him to abscond in the dead of night. Riley was well placed and hardworking, he had no parents to pay off. Should he stay- if Dorian's father allowed him to stay- he could become a free man in five years’ time.

Saying ‘yes’ to leaving this life behind would not guarantee they wouldn't be miserable. Saying ‘yes’ to a fantasy meant reality would return with a vengeance. The brutality of Imperial convention would see to it the slave would pay a heavy penalty for the magister’s son’s fleeting happiness.

Dorian couldn't be selfish enough to ask him.

He drank more, calm settling over him like a warm blanket. His mother’s dependence on the vine was understandable, advisable. She probably hadn't wanted to have any children, she wasn't very maternal. She definitely did not want _Dorian_. How hard had she fought her own expectations before giving in?

Perhaps his father, too, had wanted more out of life than to be a well paid stooge for the Archon who spent his off days chasing after a willful degenerate. What had the man wanted for himself? What had he given up in exchange for Dorian, his utterly disappointing heir?

Dorian fell asleep amidst the flowers contemplating his parent’s pain, realising it could too soon be his own.

 

Halward remained in the slave’s room just long enough to ensure Dorian wouldn't be at the bottom of the stairs waiting for him, large green eyes overflowing with crocodile tears.

No servant was foolish enough to raise their eyes as he came back through, paid the baker who had rushed to let him now his son was about to engage in unsavoury practice. He went to his study and took up Aquinea’s bottle. He didn't usually drink. By his own admission, it made his head ache, his stomach revolt.

But his own son, kneeling before a slave was too much to bear. That he flirted with the sons of other magisters, a humiliation that would largely contain itself, was already bad enough. How to explain to the Archon, if he asked, Dorian debasing himself so completely? It would result in Halward’s immediate dismissal from service, would severe Dorian’s link to becoming the next Archon himself.

More wine, not enough wine. He switched to cognac.

Couldn't Dorian understand the heartache he was heaping on himself? No one would take him seriously, he was injuring his prospects as a magister and a senator, as a citizen. It was an uphill battle to be heard on the senate floor even if you were a person of means and influence. He'd never pass legislation, would leave no mark on the Imperium, would forever be relegated to riding the coattails of those so much less deserving. And for what?

Halward’s experience with homosexuality was limited to the perverse chicken hawks who trolled the lower senate, seeking young men without patrons, promising them the world in exchange for their honour, only to discard them when they got too old.

This was his understanding of Dorian's pleas for freedom of choice. To be used and thrown away when convenient. To destroy everything his ancestors had worked for. To trade a brilliant future, untold riches and prestige, for a brief lay. A secret lover would surely only use Dorian for their own gain. At least with a wife there was the security of knowing they wouldn't part until death. Dorian would have someone to share his burdens with, someone to offer support.

He'd been almost happy to hear he could catch him in the act with a _slave_ , to use the exchange as a teaching tool. He'd expected an older, opportunistic man, someone preying on a idealistic child. Someone dastardly and crass- a villain for the narrative he'd constructed. He had never expected a boy barely older than his own to be in co-operation with the depravity.

Halward had wanted someone to blame for Dorian's wayward ways. But which of the two young children was he to consider evil? He hadn't conceived of this scenario, had no frame of reference to assess what he’d just witnessed. It made him all the angrier that he could not accuse and dispense with a malignant influence. With no villain, the fault fell on his own shoulders.

When he raised his hand, only to shake a disapproving fist, Dorian had thrown himself forward to defend the slave against an imagined attack. And the slave… One hand placed at his son’s back, the other against his neck, a foot forward to turn and take the expected blast in Dorian's place. The mutually protective stance, the willingness to be sundered for the other… Dorian's pathetic attempt to explain the situation. His attempts to spare the slave recrimination were unexpected, yet maybe they shouldn't have been. He _had_ been raised well, truly was a selfless boy when it mattered.

Was that what love looked like? Halward couldn't verify. Aquinea would not do for him what their son was willing to do for a slave. And Halward could not say he would do similar for his wife. The most he'd felt for the woman was a detached sense of fondness when she passed out in amusing positions. They supported each other in their political and social endeavours. That was their contract by marriage. Who was to say if Dorian got more from his dalliances with a slave than Halward with his wife.

Did it matter?

It did not. Dorian would not be allowed to disgrace himself to prove the theory one way or the other. He would be made to understand how unpleasant his life would be if he continued down this path. If reason failed, Halward would use any means necessary to prevent Dorian enduring a lifetime of sorrow, humiliation, and obscurity. Despite Halward's hasty and angry words, Dorian was still very much his son.

“Check his room.” The magister dismissed the servant at his elbow to see if Dorian had been obedient.

Seconds ticked by to minutes, to an hour before the servant returned.

“My lord.” Afraid he would take the brunt of the Master’s displeasure. “He is not there.”

Truthfully, Halward had not expected he would be. Dorian went out of his way to defy his father.

He had a pretty good idea where his son was, anyway.

As he suspected, Dorian was in his usual hiding place amid the rose bushes. Two empty bottles of wine and another half empty by him. Dorian was his mother's son as well, it would seem. He didn't rouse as Halward knelt beside him in the grass.

He appeared so young while sleeping, really still a child. His ringed fingers curled by his face, some stained with ink and some bandaged over burns.

What was Halward to do with him? The world was a brutal place: without intervention it would consume whatever innocence Dorian had left, leaving him ravaged and destitute. He didn't want his son to suffer, he didn't want him to struggle or hurt. Whatever Dorian's understanding of reality, he could be taught marrying a woman he didn't care for was by far preferable to spending his life as a pariah.

Dorian wasn't as light as he used to be, either that or Halward was getting older. It was bordering on difficult to lift him so he could be carried back to his room.

Halward waited outside the door after putting his son to bed. He contemplated bolting it from his side, but decided against it. He ran his hands over the grooves gouged into the wood by the pagoda tiles. He hadn't been able to control Dorian with locks before, he probably couldn't now.


	5. Astringent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Bull have some conversation and some drinks.

The Iron Bull stretched and yawned. He gave his belly a brief scritchy-scratch before he realised what was missing.

Dorian had gotten up in the middle of the night (Bull had assumed to relieve himself) and now he couldn’t remember if the man had come back into the tent or not. The fine robes were no longer neatly folded at the foot of the bedroll. The fancy, tall nug skin boots were still propped up in the corner of the tent, socks inside.

It could be surmised the damned, barefooted fool wasn't very far. 

Bull dressed and exited into the chilly morning. Not the conditions for brooding comfortably sans shoes. His breath hung in the air as huffed in frustration- white puffs lingering before drifting up and away.

He hadn’t really expected to find Dorian up and alert. The mage was a perpetual late riser. _Not a morning person_ , Dorian would say. _A lazy and indolent drunkard_ , Blackall had once retorted. It was a little tragic to find him curled up against a fallen tree by a dying fire, though; head bent forward, chin to chest. Bull adjusted Dorian’s wool shawl before adding a few logs to the ashes and embers. The fire was rapidly stoked back to life.  

“Hey, big guy.” Bull sat next to Dorian on the hard ground, pulled him into a warming embrace. “You sleep out here last night?”

Dorian seemed disoriented as his eyes slowly opened. He looked exhausted. Bull wondered how much sleeping the man had managed or if he'd sat awake by the fire until dawn.

“What?”

“I asked if you slept out here. Your toes have to be freezing. You left your boots in the tent.” A large hand stole under the shawl to squeeze the frozen feet. “Dammit, Dorian, you'll get frostbite if you aren't careful.”

“I’ve only been out here for,” the mage squinted at the lightening sky, “maybe an hour or so? Not more than a few hours, in any case.”

“I don't think that's accurate.” Bull recalled crickets chirping when Dorian had left the tent, not a single bird. “Here, let's get you nice ‘n toasty. Wanna sit on my lap?” Bull reached out for the smaller man.

“Ah,” his gaze flitted about the camp, alighted on the tent shared by Sera and the Inquisitor, “I think I'd prefer to stay where I am.”

“Nugshit. They don't give a crap what we do. Come ‘ere before your fingers fall off. Really sucks not having all of them, you know.” 

An indignant snort before Dorian crept over Bull’s leg. It was warmer pressed against the big man. Dorian sat sideways within the expansive lap, tucked his toes under the qunari's heavy thigh to thaw them out.

“See? That's much better, isn’t it?” Bull sorted the shawl to trap most of his body heat beneath it and around the smaller, shivering form.

“Hmm.” The man’s satisfied smile quickly faded. “Actually, no, not really. Even by the fire, I’m still chilled to the bone. Why is it always so cold? How do you Southerners stand it?”

The qunari was not a Southerner. He was just wise enough to not walk around barefooted in the wee morning hours. Bull figured Dorian might not be interested in being corrected. Better to be cheeky than condescending. Dorian approved of flirtatious teasing.

“What’s the matter? Not enough slaves around to rub your footsies?” Bull pinched Dorian’s little toe where he could reach it.

“My footsies are _freezing_ , thank you. Your observations are astute as always.” The ‘Vint withdrew his feet from under Bull’s leg to offer better access. The qunari rubbed away a little of the cold he found in the presented extremities. “Mm. You’re surprisingly good at that.”

 _And why shouldn't I be? I'm great boyfriend material._  

“I astutely observe,” Bull mused as he massaged under the high arches, kneaded the well shaped heels, “you look like you’ve gone a few rounds with a great bear. Don’t get me wrong, you’re still the prettiest man I’ve ever seen, but human skin tends to get pale and greasy when you guys don’t get your beauty sleep.”

The revelation was distressing for someone so vain. Dorian was definitely perturbed. He wiped nervously at his cheek, feeling for clammy skin. 

“Am I very… oily right now?” He couldn’t bring himself to say the word ‘greasy.’    

“Naw, you’re fine. I’ll let you know when you start to get gross. You can go back to sleep for a bit, head off the problem before it starts. We still have a few days of riding ahead of us. Might be a good idea to rest up while you can.” 

“I honestly don’t think I could go back to sleep. I’m fairly glad you woke me up when you did.” Dorian snuggled closer, dipping under the woolen shawl.

“Why? Have a bad dream or something?”

“Yes… or something.” 

“No reason to be embarrassed. Not like you can control your dreams.” It occurred to Bull maybe Dorian could. The mage certainly seemed to possess other interesting qualities in relation to his gift. “You can’t... can you?”

“Of course not! Not how you’re suggesting, anyway. Not without expending a good deal of effort. Do you think I would intentionally give myself night terrors? How masochistic do you think I am?” 

“Not entirely certain you want me to answer that.”

“Uhg!” Dorian sniffed in the frigid air before relenting. “Fair enough, I suppose.”

 The silence which followed wasn’t unpleasant, but it emphasised Dorian’s chattering teeth, his visible breath.

“You can talk about it- the dream- if you want to. Otherwise, you can rest your eyes for a while.”

“I’ll just rest my eyes. I don’t want to be bothersome.”

“You sure? I like it when you bother me.”

Dorian sought Bull’s eye. His mouth set into a hard line before he glanced away.

“With an invitation like that, how can I pass up the opportunity to make you eat your words?” 

“And what a sumptuous feast they’d be.” A slow, winking blink.

“Very well. Bother you I shall.” Dorian reflected on where to start. “I suppose I’m just worried. About a number of possibilities, outcomes, for this venture of mine. If this is a trap I’m leading us into…”

“It’s probably not, but go on. Better to get your panic attacks out of the way if they’re keeping you up all night.” 

“I’m hardly-” He cut himself off with a deep inhale, held it in his lungs before huffing sulkily. “If you think it'll help, I'll blab at you. Remember you've asked me to.

“Let me start by saying, I do want to go home some day, it really isn’t about that. But I’d rather die than go back to Qarinus now. Knowing what’s waiting for me if I do. It’s pathetic to say- I’m _frightened_ , Bull. I can't stop thinking about it. If something happens, if it’s like the last time, please don’t let him-”

“Hey, stop.” Bull nipped the morbid speculation in the bud. “Nothing like that is going to happen. We’re going to get you to Redcliffe so you can send off a ‘fuck you’ message to your folks, then you’re coming home with us to Skyhold. There and back, no worries. First round of drinks is on you once we get back to the Rest.”

“If only it were as simple as that. You grievously underestimate the power of money. My father has more than you can fathom.”

“Ha! You grievously underestimate the power of my pecs. Let him fathom this.” A few exaggerated flexes had Dorian jostling on the big man’s lap, laughing in surprise. “I’m not letting you go that easily, besides. I’d like to see some hired thug son of a bitch pry you outta my arms. That all you’re worried about? Or you got something else for me?”

This time the silence was more strained.

“I’d very much like to believe the only thing missing from my life prior to this point was a big, strong man. It would make a handful of shameful experiences easier to bear. Nice to lay blame beyond oneself. Dreadful, but I’ve too much evidence which confirms the contrary.”

The Bull wasn’t sure how to respond. While the qunari was curious, he bit his tongue so he wouldn't ask directly what Dorian thought his life had been missing prior. Bull had only been joking, after all, and wasn’t confident insisting he was the solution to all Dorian’s problems. There really wasn’t any way in hell he was going to anyone make off with his mage, though. He'd been honest enough about that.  

“Were you dreaming about your life in the Imperium, then? Those “shameful experiences”, as you called them?”

“Hn. I think so.” Dorian hooked his fingers into Bull’s harness, tugged on it a few times distractedly. His lips moved soundlessly before he worked up the daring to speak aloud. “I can’t help but feel I’ve brought a lot of my misery on myself.”

“Pretty vague claim. Isn’t life just a series of choices we make building on a series of choices someone before us made?”

“Oh my! I had no idea you were such a nihilist, Bull.”

“I’m not. I said our lives have less choices than we think they do, not less meaning. All our actions have consequences; every cause has an effect. Doesn’t mean you deserve something bad happening to you if you make a mistake.” When Dorian didn’t find the wisdom in his words: “Don’t roll your eyes at me.”

“Why? Will _something_ _bad_ happen if I do?” It was common among the Altus class and their au pairs to say one’s face could get stuck if silly expressions were made too often. Sera was living proof the scare tactic wasn’t true.

“Nope. You’re the glutton for punishment. How much of a sadist do you think I am?”

“Not at all. Well, not at all hours of the day you aren't.” Still tugging relentlessly on Bull’s harness strap. “Not entirely unrelated, how would you define the ‘abuse of magic?’”

“Are you trying to start shit?” The question seemed like a throwback to the previous evening. Perhaps Dorian trying to feel like he was in control of something, no matter how inconsequential or infuriating. If so, Bull was not interested in encouraging the behaviour. There were better coping mechanisms to develop than being quarrelsome.

“That could mean anything, I’m not about to try and define something so broad. Especially not to you, Magister Reads-the-Goddamn-Dictionary-for-Fun.”

The smaller man chuckled softly, shook his head.

“Reading the dictionary _is_ fun. There is all manner of filthy and foul language hidden between the covers. But I digress! I’m actually a bit relieved to hear you say so. Oddly broad, so far as expressions go. It’s just something I heard somewhere. I’m not trying to pick a fight- I’m not about to underestimate the power of your pectorals.” Dorian’s grin had returned though it seemed disingenuous.

“Why ask me if you didn’t want an answer?”

The mage wiggled in Bull’s arms. It wasn’t immediately apparent if he was uncomfortable with his current position or with the conversation he’d initiated.

“I almost hesitate to rephrase. Will you promise not to get mad if you don’t want to answer me?”

Bull seriously considered the request. He wanted to help Dorian anyway he could, but didn’t want to make a promise he couldn’t keep. Even if he was getting a bit anxious, the man didn’t seem like he was setting Bull up. Needy was preferable by far to nettlesome. 

“I promise not to get mad, if you promise not to ask something stupid.”

“Venhedis! You are kind of an asshole, aren’t you? I… I don’t _think_ it’s a stupid question.”

“No one ever does. Can you stop pulling on that strap? It’s digging into my skin.” Bull looped a thumb through his harness to adjust it back to the preferred position. “If you need to fuck with something, play with your own belts. You’ve got a crap load of them.” 

“Fine! I will ask my _stupid_ question instead.” Dorian let go of The Bull’s harness to lace his fingers together resolutely. “Would you say- no. Rather, do you _think_ I abuse magic?”

It was one of those inquiries designed with no good, truthful answer in mind. A set up after all, even if the man hadn't intended it to be.

 _Classic fucking Dorian_.

“Uhhh…”

“Dear me. So it really was a dumb question, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. It’s really up there among the dumbest things I’ve ever heard you say.” Bull pressed a sloppy kiss against Dorian’s temple to prove he wasn’t mad about it, however.

“Can I ask one more? Even if I know it’ll be as silly as the previous?”

“Well, that was technically two more, and neither of them was remarkably inspiring.”

“Andraste, help me! You aren’t just _kind_ of an asshole, you _definitely_ are one.”

“Isn’t that one of the many reasons you love me? Because I don’t always give you exactly what you want when you want it?” Bull needled, planting more messy kisses atop Dorian’s head, even as the mage tensed expectedly in his grip.

 “I- I _enjoy_ your company significantly more when you’re being kind to me.” Red was such a flattering colour on the man.

“Aww, am I being mean to you right now? I’m letting you use me like a hot water bottle and sounding board. Go ahead, ask whatever you want. If it’s really moronic, I’m just not going to respond.”

The mage scoffed. “I just wanted to know _why_ it was a stupid question. Is it because I definitely abuse my gifts or because I definitely don’t?”

“Dorian, please, you’re just asking the same question three different ways.” The Ben-Hassrath sighed. Didn't take special insight to see that probably meant Dorian really wanted an answer. “Okay, I give. You’re only going to keep pestering me otherwise.

“Yes, you definitely, absolutely abuse magic. You use it to reheat your tea when it gets lukewarm. But,” he rushed to cut off any objection, “ _but_ , I don’t think you’re hurting anyone. Not anyone who doesn’t deserve it anyway. At worst, you’re irresponsible. You’re just doing what you were born to do.”  

“An interesting way of looking at it. I thought your people didn’t think very highly of mages. Is that a line from your beloved Qun? It’s terribly permissive.”

“Oh, fuck, no!” Bull laughed hard enough to partially displace the smaller man. “I mean, we appreciate the sacrifices our mages are willing to make. I can’t imagine what another Qunari would do if he encountered such a reckless bastard. You’re one dangerously busy bee. If I were you, I’d stay far, far away from Par Vollen.”

“Reckless.” Dorian squirmed to get re-situated comfortably. “So you find me problematic?” 

“Every once in awhile I do. Mostly because you ask stupid fucking questions. When it comes to shit I feel threatened by? You’re fairly low on the list.”

“Because I’m so uptight, if I recall correctly.”

“Yup, there’s that. Also because I trust you. No way I'd turn my back on you- let alone bunk with you- if I didn't. But I know what you’re trying to get at in your round about way, little ‘Vint.” He tapped a large grey finger against the nippy, pink nose. “You want me to tell you you’re perfect again, right?”

“That much I already know.” A smaller, but more genuine, smile than any of the previous that morning.

“Course you do. You know I’m not going to get bored of pointing out your better qualities. Not when you’re just starting to get good at sucking my dick. Gotta keep you around somehow.”

“Hmm. My devious ploy has been ferreted out I see. Suck your cock and then steal your soul.” The latter phrase spoken in his sinister magister voice. So it wasn't reserved only for spooking Sera and the Inquisitor. Hope for it to be used in the bedroom yet.

“If it means I keep getting world-class head, I'll pretend it's still a secret.”

“Oooh! One might consider it unwise to be so possessed by one’s baser passions, my dear: you'll fall easy prey to desire demon talking like that.”

A knee jerk reaction, unfortunately for Dorian not metaphorically.

“Don't even joke about that shit, Dorian. I'm serious.”

“Afraid of demons, are we? I would have thought The Mighty Iron Bull feared nothing.” 

 _At least I'm not afraid of some old man thousands of miles away._ Too mean to say aloud, definitely an unnecessary escalation.

“Yeah, well _one_ might might find it smart to steer clear of stuff worth being afraid of.”

“Pish-posh. Demons aren't actually worth fearing. When they aren't corporeal and flinging fire at you, that is. When they are in spirit form? Fuff! Noisy nuisances is what they are.”

Why did Dorian have to go and say that? Blithely cleaning under his nails without a moment’s hesitation before prattling on. Cavalier and arrogant, a potential source of worry for The Bull. Making a liar out of the Ben-Hassrath after the fact.

“When you say things like that, you have to know it's why some people don't like mages- especially Tevinters.”

 The spark across the mage’s face was a healthy mix of annoyance and amusement.

“Call the Templars! There’s a manic magister on the loose. Be careful he doesn’t trip over his _skirt_ and stub his toe: he could use the blood to attract some fell beast. All I need is one itty drop and I should find myself the next pretender to godhood. How’s that for megalomaniacal rhetoric? Utter fiasco or do I pass muster?”

“You’re fucking toeing the line and being a smug little prick is what you’re doing. Want to backup your insane theories?”

“Cite my evidence, you mean?” Delighted to, one could suppose. “I should think my existence is proof enough mages are no more susceptible to possession than the average person... or qunari for that matter. We’re just a more alluring target.” 

Bull grunted his disagreement. “What about dwarves?”

Dorian tipped his head back to glance up.

“Must you nitpick everything I say?” Cutting The Bull to the chase; “I swear to the Maker, Bull, if you say ‘says you’ one more time, I'll send you to meet him on the spot.”

“Wasn’t going to.” Bull grumbled, well aware he had. “This conversation is making my skin crawl. I’m going to indulge you for the next minute in a half, and then you have to put a cork in it.” 

“I don’t think a cork would be nearly enough to shut me up. But a time limit? That’s hardly fair. Couldn’t you listen to my sonorous voice for hours at a time? Such a melodic and rich tenor, no?”

“One minute left.” Bull warned.

“You are serious!” Dorian was grinning sleepily. “So very commanding. Okay, okay. My evidence can be simply surmised:

“A well educated mage is far less of a threat than a poorly educated one- Qunari or Southern, that is to say.

“If it is not glaringly obvious, I'm not advocating traipsing up to the Veil and politely inviting a demon to inhabit your head. Demons, spirits, what have you, only have as much power as you're willing to give them. 

“All they truly have is the power to promise you something. And a demon will _never_ make good on its promise. That makes a demon’s power inversely proportional to one’s intelligence. Once you understand there is nothing to be gained by allying with a demon, the idea looses all its lustre. A smart man wouldn't even consider giving up his entire being for, what was the term Sera used the other day? _Bupkis._ How am I on time?”

Dorian's logic was, as usual, sound if foreign. A curious train of thought which pulled The Bull in against his better judgement.   

“You're such a smart guy, you've earned yourself another two minutes.”

“Yay. I do so adore a man who appreciates my intellect.” Dorian spent a few precious seconds to nibble on Bull’s jaw. “I’m getting off topic again, though. As I was saying, it's not the powerful you need to concern yourself with. It is the desperate, the destitute, and the _dumb_. You could probably toss the greedy atop that pile, under the dumb category.

“We in the Imperium treasure and educate our gifted. Train a mage from childhood to resist the empty, whispered promises of a demon- tell someone _why_ it isn't a smart choice- and you'll notice a drastic drop-off in those willing to make a deal, as it were.

“It's this insane tradition of coercing Southern mages into abusive Circles where they are given inadequate training and fed hogwash about their inability to control themselves away from Templar supervision which is most worrisome. So many mages down here think they are evil or bad, just for existing. Is it any wonder one might find the prospect of possession attractive? Anything to get out from under the crushing oppression. And if you're already damned from birth what's adding a little deal with a devil going to do to your soul? You want to know who is to blame for rampant possession in the South? _The Chantry_.”

Once more, this made too much sense. The Bull recalled saarebas he encountered in Seheron. Faceless, speechless, in some cases tongueless, illiterate and ostracised. Taught to self-immolate when they had been away from their karataam for even an instant. Were they doomed from the start, given this terrible instruction? Bull knew of arvaarad who beat their imekari charges to make them complicit. Not so long ago the harsh precautions seemed necessary. He'd never considered mages might be able to master themselves before meeting Dalish and Dorian. And he'd never discussed magic or mages at any length with the self-styled archer. How many of those he'd cut down in Tal-Vashoth encampments had been as cognisant, as sensible, as the man now snuggling against him? 

Not something Bull likes to think about for long periods of time. 

“You went over your two minutes there, I'm sure.” 

“I don’t think I did. I’ve taken enough oration lessons I can well structure my thoughts. Funny I hoped this little talk would be illuminating. Silly of me to waste my elocution on someone so thick-headed.” Pouting designed to instill guilt in the big man.

Worst part was it worked. Time to shut that shit right down.

“Hmph. Talk is cheap.” 

“What?” Brushing him off got a foreseeable rise out of the mage. “How dare you. Talk isn’t cheap. _You’re_ cheap.”

_Oration lessons clearly come in handy when you’re put on the spot, big guy._

 “I’m not cheap. I’m free. Big difference. You’d owe me more than you make, if I ever decided to charge.” 

“Now who's talking cheap? I won’t even tell you how much _you_ owe _me_ then, while we’re on the subject-” The man might have had something further to say, but covered his mouth to yawn widely. A blessed opening to arrest the conversation where it was.   

“A-ha! Only out for a few hours last night, were you? Can’t even stay awake long enough to properly shoot me down. You’re cut off: no more fishing for compliments or insults now. Close your eyes and shut your damn mouth for a bit. I’ll keep rubbing your icicle toes.”    


Sera popped out of her tent a brief while later. Her short hair was flat on one side, the other sticking up at an odd angle. She shimmied as she walked, bedroll slung around her slight frame and dragging behind her in the dirt. The elf made a face, but kept her voice down as she approached.

Despite his assertion he wouldn’t fall asleep again, Dorian was dozing quietly, curled up in Bull’s lap.

Her presence wasn’t especially welcome. Hissrad’s continued insistence _some_ mages needed to be under the control of Templars or arvaarad brought to mind her warning from the previous evening. Sera’s accusation had cut deep before, sliced into the bone now. She was shrewd, her acute elf eyes peering too far into his own. While she was a firm believer in Southern Circles, it was mandatory they make an exception for the Dorians of the world.  

Shame boiled over in his belly, making the qunari’s tongue taste bad. Bull had wanted a few minutes more to be alone with Dorian, mercifully removed from the rest of the world, while the man was peacefully slumbering. Dorian had finally stopped shivering, the normal deep bronze colour had returned to his face. Bull had been delighting in whispering softly into his ear to provoke dreamy (and, quite frankly, amusingly absurd) replies. So long as the man was directed away from having nightmares.

_“You look bummed, Dorian. What’s up?”_

_“The cat.. knocked my ink pots… all over.”_

_“That sounds terrible. Is he making a mess? Can you ask him to stop?”_

_“Awful mess, but I don’t speak Rivaini…”_

“Frig yer adorbs.” Sera yawned as she sat on the fallen tree above and behind The Bull’s shoulder. “What time is it even?”

 “Still early. Figured I’d let everyone sleep in before we head on out. Can you start some water for coffee? I’d get up and make it myself, but- well.” He placed a hand on Dorian’s back to shift the smaller man’s weight off his bad knee.

“I could.” She waited as if expecting something further.

“Great. Do it then.” Bull didn’t turn around to face the glare he was certainly receiving. Meeting her eyes would mean acknowledging her irritation, validating her thoughts.

Sera returned to her perch on the tree once the iron kettle was settled over the fire.

“Is he sleeping?” She asked, leaning over The Bull’s horns to peek under the shawl.

“What does it look like? Leave him alone.” Bull used a gnarled hand to shield Dorian from her peeping.

“Like a sugar coated cherry, in’he? _Sweet_.” Sera grinned a bit before sitting back on her hands. “Know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like that. Don’t worry, I’m not gunna bug him. No reason to, any how. ‘Spect you had him bent over bits up face down most of the night and now he’s zonked.”

Bull grunted. The evening, their intimate moments, were meant to be just for the two of them. He'd promised Dorian as much.

“You hear something last night? Keep it to yourself if you did.” He thought he’d done a good job of making sure Dorian was quiet. Maybe he, himself, hadn’t kept his voice down enough. Maybe the elf’s pointy ears had picked up more than either man had wanted them to.

“Just little ‘huff-huffs’ here and there. Not anywhere near as bad as I’d’ve thought.”

“Told you, you don’t lis… mm too loud.” Dorian mumbled drowsily, nuzzling his face further under the shawl.

Bull held his breath for a moment to make sure Dorian wouldn’t wake up to them talking about him, any noises he might have made in the throes of passion. It was fairly clear he was still out. The qunari ran a hand consolingly down the man’s side to let him know he hadn’t been too loud at all.

“I know, I’m not a very good listener, am I?” Hissrad knew it wasn’t true, but it mollified the napping mage. “You’re fine, buddy.”

Sera giggled. “Shite listener, pretty good talker. Ammirite? Take that nugshite to market and sell it, no one here's buying.” 

“I wasn't talking to you.”

“He’s asleep, so you're not really talking to him either, are you.”

“I didn't ask for an opinion.” Dorian had heard him just fine, had been adequately soothed by Bull’s assurance. “Get to work on that coffee.”

 “Please’ll get you anything. Don’t be a prig. He’s _my_ friend, too, ya know.” Sera pouted, but stood to comply. Bull watched her rummage through the camp kitchen for supplies.  

The racket alerted the Requisition Officer. She left her tent, pulling her shoes on. The Bull contemplated sliding Dorian off his lap, maybe carrying him back to their tent. Moving him too much might result in rousing him. The poor thing really needed to rest.

The R.O. didn’t so much as glance in their general direction as she helped the elf locate an Antivan press and some coarsely ground beans. Bull’s initial assessment was correct. No one in the camp cared if a Ben-Hassrath wanted to publically cuddle with an Altus. With a jagged hole piercing the sky overhead, the titles- their implications- meant nothing in the Fereldan wilderness.

 

The inviting scent of fresh coffee being steeped filled the camp. Dorian stirred again, pulled away from the Fade by the rich smell. He slipped wordlessly from Bull’s lap but maintained the comforting contact by resting his head against a broad, grey bicep.

“Morning, morning, pretty boy!” Sera chirruped as she brought over a big mug of coffee. Bull made a grab for it, but she handed it off to Dorian. “Nope!  You get yours when I get a ‘please’ and ‘thanks much,’ tubby.”

“‘Tubby?’ You chicken-legged little-”

Sera nimbly evaded Bull’s one armed snatch with a dancing side-step.

“Fat _and_ slow.” She sniped. “Takes a carp to know one, doesn’t it? Or maybe I’m off by a letter….”

“I… you’re asking me something?” Dorian looked between the two of them, wondering if he was dreaming the odd interaction. He accepted his cup with a confused head tilt and a hesitant thank you. 

“Both of you, sure. But chubby dum-dum here already knows what I want to hear.” Sera remained standing with arms crossed over her chest.

“ _Please_ , can I have some coffee?” Bull relented with a sigh, figuring he had been rude earlier, could swallow a spoonful of his pride. 

“Hmmm… Dunno. _Can_ you?” She’d pilfered the joke from Dorian’s repertoire. It was extra irritating coming from her. “There might not be any left for big, dumb oxes.”

“I said please, Sera.”

“Still missing somethin’. Here I thought ya’ might be more civilized than the rest of you. Prove me right, I’ll get what I want. Prove me wrong- well, you’ll have something out of it.” Sera smiled down at the seething qunari. So she wanted him to put that spoonful of pride atop a big slice of humble pie.

“ _T_ _hank you_ for making the coffee. May I _please_ have some?” Bull grit his teeth together. The sunk costs were beginning to outweigh any prospective benefits.  

“Hee hee! Only coz you’re good at mannering.” The elf skipped off to the table to fill another mug.

His ‘Vint, insolent as always, made a sound next to The Bull. It was a barely suppressed chuckle. Bull decided he didn’t like the twitchy grin forming on his mage’s lips.

“What?” 

“Me? I didn’t say anything.” Dorian hid his mouth with the mug, blowing on the steaming liquid to cool it. “Only… I don’t know I’ve ever seen someone make _you_ beg before.”

“I can see you thinking. Stop it.”

 “I find it much more appealing than I might have imagined I would.”

“Yeah? Well don’t get used to it. You couldn’t manage it if you tried.”

“Couldn’t I?” He gingerly sipped the hot coffee before offering it to his companion.

“No.”

The mug vanished from under Bull’s large hand before he could grip it, fingers closing around thin air. Dorian was drinking from it again. The dark eyes were making peripheral contact with his own, lone one. The smaller man was far too pleased with himself.

Sera returned once more with another cup. Before she could give it to Bull, Dorian held up a fine, brown hand to stop her.

“The Inquisitor can have that one, we’re sharing.” The mage motioned between himself and The Bull, pressed closer to make his statement more credible.

“Yuck! Be gooey elsewhere.” She shrugged. They were a lost cause. “Shite, forget it. I’m gunna go get dressed. Do whatever you’re gunna do, just do it quietly, if you can manage.” Sera took the remaining two mugs with her back to the tent.

“What did you do that for? What if I wanted my own?” Bull watched her go with an appreciable amount of disappointment. He’d just debased himself for no reason thanks to Dorian. 

“Bull, aren’t you always admonishing me for being a greedy Tevinter? I would think, as a Qunari, you would be used to sharing. Or pleased with me for finally taking your advice. I’m so very rarely well behaved.” Dorian’s grin was wicked.

_Think you’re so clever, do you?_

The qunari got up and walked over to the camp kitchen. He gave the Antivan press a shake; it was devoid of contents save for the damp, soggy grounds. Next, he tried the cloth bag which had held the coffee. Aside from four whole and one half beans, there was nothing left.

“Do we have any more of this?” Bull held the empty press and bag out to the R.O. 

She gave him only a moment's attention before letting him know they did not. Bull growled and returned to Dorian’s side.

“Are you actually planning on sharing, or are you being a brat again?” Bull tried unsuccessfully to get a hold on the mug. It was moved just beyond reach each time he made a play for it. He wouldn’t be able yank it away unless he was willing to scald Dorian.

“I will share,” glee revitalising the weary countenance, “if you ask me very nicely.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sera got a ‘please.’ Don’t you think I deserve one, too?” 

Bull can’t quite believe Dorian’s tone. It so very nearly sounds authoritative. He knows what the man is trying to say ( _“beg me for it”)_ but his conveyance is too irresolute to take seriously. Like Bull’s already told him, Dorian’s not the dominant sort. Even if he was, The Bull believes in consent as a two way street: _nothing_ happens between the two of them if either one isn’t on board. Pre-breakfast power struggles aren’t Bull’s idea of a sexy time. The big man would have to be in a much more forgiving mood to submit to an uppity little ‘Vint over a cup of fucking coffee.

“You don’t deserve shit. You weren’t even awake when she made it. The only reason she gave you some was to piss me off.” Bull made another grab for the cup.

“And yet here I am, the only one of us who gets to enjoy this delicious beverage.” Dorian took a measured slurp so he wouldn’t burn his tongue.

“Because you screwed me out of my own. I’m not going to thank you for that.”

“So you intended to _screw_ , as you so charmingly put it, our beloved Inquisitor out of something you’d take for yourself? So greedy, indeed, Bull!”

First Sera and now Dorian. Intolerable. Truth be told, Bull hadn’t even wanted the coffee until he had been told he couldn’t have it. His request for it was intended to create busy work for the elf, not drawn from actual desire. However, the mage’s burgeoning attitude was too presumptuous to ignore. The man was positively _begging_ to be humbled.

Bull contemplated his options. The way he saw it, he had two possible choices for retaliation: 

  1. He could reassert his own dominance- use his sternest, most commanding voice and demand Dorian hand over the coffee or suffer the consequences. The tone was compelling, effective- made the smaller man’s brows draw together over his suddenly blown pupils, his pulse quicken, his cheeks darken.
  2. Or he could give Dorian exactly what he was asking for- make a series of loud, lewd noises, audibly plead for the coffee while panting the man’s name. Dorian would probably surrender the contested coffee immediately to prevent anyone from hearing.     



Both sounded good in his mind. Dorian aroused was just as delectable as Dorian flustered. It was hard to decide what might be more enjoyable to see. Sadly, Bull spent too long fantasising the ways he might torture his mage. Almost as if he was aware of what The Bull was plotting, Dorian averted his eyes and quickly handed the mug over to the big man. 

Nowhere near as much fun, like being blue-balled. Bull wanted Dorian to learn his lesson about bad behaviour and posturing.

“Good boy. I knew you’d see things my way.” The Bull rumbled, more gravelly and throaty than was necessary. He let a hand rest at the crux of the smaller thigh and groin while he drank his half leisurely. Dorian’s breath caught on the exhale as a pinkie nub lightly dug into the pressure point. It wasn’t very severe as far as punishments go, but it certainly got the man’s attention. “Here, the rest is yours. Go pack up our things. I’m gunna see about breakfast before we get going.”  


They’d gotten a slow start out of the camp in the morning. Bull expected he had been sufficiently dominant to discourage what he called ‘topping from the bottom.’ Dorian took extra time packing up Bull’s belongings before cooking a big breakfast for them all. He was demure and domestic enough Bull regretted not playing along earlier.

The moment he’d picked up his bag, Dorian’s sought after “thank you” on his scarred lips, Bull remembered Dorian was no shrinking violet.

Somehow (really, truly, _somehow_ \- possibly with a certain elf’s aid), Dorian had managed to twist and fold Bull’s pack in such a way it appeared to be upright when it was in fact upside down. The flap flopped around uselessly as everything in the bag tumbled out onto the frost covered ground. Bull stood over the spilled contents for a minute, blinking slowly, consumed by confusion before Sera’s giggle fit drew his attention. The mage was standing just beside her, biting his thumb to quell his own mirth. 

_“Really, Bull! And I spent all morning organising your pack perfectly. You are such a messy savage.”_

Dorian’s prank hadn’t put Bull in too foul a mood. Repacking on a full stomach wasn’t the worst way he’d ever spent a morning.

The moment no eyes were pointed at them, he made sure to catch the smaller man about the midsection, pulled him close to whisper there would be dire repercussions for the misdeed. The Bull let him go with a smooch and pat on the backside, a gentle indicator of what he could later expect as a punishment.

Bull had been looking forward to a kink filled evening, making Dorian whimper and writhe after they'd missed their chance in the morning. As the day wore on, it became increasingly evident they wouldn't be indulging in anything extravagant.

Dorian had stayed up too late two nights in a row and wasn't holding up well under the stress of travelling to Redcliffe. He leaned perilously, eyelids heavy, on his mount. Bull was terrified the man might fall asleep, then off the horse, and break his neck.

_“We can stop if you want and take a break.” Bull moved his dracolisk close just in case Dorian did slip._

_“Hmm? What’s that?” Either tired enough to have misheard the suggestion, or Dorian enough to pretend he hadn’t heard it at all._

_“In’there a lake we can stop by in the area?” Sera had come to the same conclusion as Bull, had brought her mount to Dorian’s other side._

_Dorian could clearly see what they were trying to do and was quite naturally offended. He urged his horse forward and away from theirs to trot alongside the Inquisitor. There were important improvements which could be made to the library, in any case, and Dorian was just the man to remark on them._

 

They don’t stop until nightfall. When Dorian goes to relight the campfire, he stands over it swaying slightly, hand outstretched but lips parted unmoving. It is almost a full minute before he gathers the focus to snap his fingers and produce a tiny spark amidst the dry wood. It’s the most conservative with mana any of the party have seen him be. Bull pushes Dorian down into one of the canvas chairs set out by the camp’s R.O. while Sera distracts him with a bottle of something strong smelling.

Bull would dearly like for Dorian to get drunk enough to be drowsy. He can’t let the man drink on an empty stomach, though, or he’ll be too intoxicated to have restorative sleep. Almost before The Bull can ask, they are offered some cheese and dried fruit from the camp’s stores.

Not ideal (Dorian should have something with more protein), but better than nothing by far.

The four of them eat and drink while taking turns telling stories of past misdeeds. The requisition officer makes herself scarce when they make no further requests of her. 

The mage smiles and nods as the elf bounces on his lap while telling some awful story about fisting. The Inquisitor is enthralled until the punchline hits. 

“And that’s why, if I ever have a daughter, I’ll name her _Circumstance_.”

“That’s cruel!” Dorian laments on behalf of a theoretical child who might one day grow up to hear of her mother’s exploits. “Why would you give her such a terrible name?” 

“Who says something like ‘Sera’ or ‘Bob’ is all that better? At least Circumstance means another thing. What even is a ‘Dorian?’” 

“A descendant of a man named Dorus, I think.” A few sips in and his tongue is already getting loose. This makes The Bull guffaw, so Dorian shrugs. “Yes, I suppose it’s really not all that better, is it?”

The big man retrieves two bottles of wine from his pack and sets them moving in opposite directions around their circle. The sky darkens to black as the conversation becomes more lively and more disjointed. They carry on to the point even Bull is having a hard time staying on topic. The discussion shifts from Sera’s attempt to work with Rocky on gaatlok (they are both still so, so far off- _all those poor bees_ ), to the Inquisitor’s need to decide if soldiers value a hearty meal over rugged footwear (a quick votes marks it a tie), to who can tell the absolute worst pun.

A-ha! This is The Iron Bull’s forte. He quickly steers the conversation towards word play. He listens to a few before deciding to put these amateurs in their place. 

“Don’t bother raising your hands, folks. I got the clear winner on this: Ahem! I kept wondering why the arrow was getting bigger, and then it... _hit me_.” Bull leans forward for his reaction, thinks at least Sera will love the joke. He is displeased with the lack of giggles. “Fuck you guys, that’s solid gold.”

“Terrible. But I can do worse: ” Dorian is just drunk enough to think he has a handle on this. “I’m reading a book on anti-gravity magic. I just can’t seem to... _put it down!_ ” No one else seems to agree with him. “I know I’m witty, I don’t require your validation.”

The Inquisitor volunteers it is pointless to write with a broken quill. Dorian snickers a bit; it's funny because it’s true. Not a clear winner, but the only one to receive a laugh so far.

“Amatuer hour is over, kiddos.” Sera takes a few deep breaths, holds her hands up for silence. She is no longer on Dorian, has moved closer to the fire so her form is eerily lighted. She looks positively demonic in the flickering glow. “Got a good one, just for you, pretty boy.”

Dorian perks up when Sera addresses him. He’d been slumping a bit and gazing off into the distance.

“Hmm?”

“What’s the difference ‘tween anal and oral sex?”

 “They are both fantastic.” Dorian tips back in his chair. “Oh wait.” The front legs come back down. “Difference, you said? Nevermind.”

“Oral sex makes your whole day,” Sera is making direct eye contact with the mage as she speaks, “anal sex makes your… _hole weak_.”  

Her pun goes over his head in his current state. Watching his brain process the meaning of each individual word at a snail’s pace is easily, _easily_ , a hundred times funnier than her joke.

“You’re using homophones.” The man grins as he finally gets the double meaning. 

“Don't call me names.” Sera frowns. “You're the one riding donkey dick over there.”

“No. I mean words which sound the same, but have different- _donkey_ _dick_? I mean, it’s pretty big, but I don't-” Dorian stops mid-sentence, suspended in thought, then doubles over laughing. “Oh Maker… I just realised... I can't believe this _just_ occurred to me. It’s positively the _worst_. Bull, Bull… _Bull_.” 

“What?” That is getting annoying. 

“You-” now Dorian is laughing too hard to breathe properly, he’s clutching his chest and gasping for air, “you are- so very literally- you are a _one-eyed monster_.”

Bull likes the idea of being a monster, almost as much as of being a weapon. He wouldn't have added a definite article before Iron Bull if he didn't enjoy a bit of objectification. He is not _totally_ into being straight-up compared to a penis, though. Seems like Dorian trying to get away with calling him a dick.

“You've probably had enough to drink.” Bull reaches to take the wine from Dorian, who refuses to let go. Pulling harder on the bottle will certainly capsize the blitzed ‘Vint. “Dorian…”

“You can have it if I can have a kiss.” Dorian leans sideways in his chair towards The Bull, arms outstretched.

“Yeah.” Bull knows Dorian isn't normally this freely affectionate in public. The qunari gently pries the bottle away. “You've definitely had enough.”

“Guess anybody who'd want to kiss you would have to be pretty foamy in the gills.” Sera giggles to herself.

“That isn't a thing. It's almost _never_ a thing with you.” Dorian mumbles. He's still leaning over the arm of his chair with his hands held out to Bull.

“Hey, I do alright.” The Bull has never gone to bed lonely if he didn't want to. Nine times out of ten he’s sober enough to make sure his partners are, too. Speaking of...

“I'm much better than _alright._ ” Dorian snaps, gracelessly rising to his feet. “I am the best anyone could ever hope to have.”

“Sure you are, buddy.” Maybe don't give Dorian too much to work with. Snippy little ‘Vint will be embarrassed if he says something explicit in front of an audience. Not that the big man would have an issue with it; he’d bang his mage over the potions table until he was _screaming_ in full view of an entire camp and not think twice about the onlookers. But Bull can already tell this is going to be one of those nights Dorian regrets in the morning. “Didn't mean to imply otherwise.”

“No kiss?” The man stands unsteadily before him, put out. Rather abruptly, he throws his arms out wide. “Can I have a hug instead?”

He's so excited about the prospect, it's downright adorable. Makes the space behind Bull’s sternum feel warm.

“Sure, you can have a hug. Can I get you to sit down afterwards so you don’t fall over?”

“Yes!” Dorian tries to accomplish both ends with one mean. He drops to his knees so he can wrap his arms around The Bull’s expansive middle. “Mmm. You’re so warm and- and squishy. I could stay here all night.”

“Gee, thanks, Dorian. That's not hurtful at all.”

There is nothing inherently sexual in what Dorian is doing. Bull doesn’t need to ask him to get up. Just that kneeling is not position the prideful Altus takes often. Typically, he only kneels when he is engaged in one particular activity. Almost impossible to separate the pose from the act in a buzzed imagination. Rapidly becoming a good idea to move away from dead centre of camp before the one-eyed monster in his pants rouses. Not that he’ll get a chance to do much of anything with said monster with Dorian already so many sheets to the wind.

“Think it might be bedtime for you? I'm pretty beat myself.” Bull gets up, holds his hands down to Dorian. “Come on, let's go cuddle.”

“Cuddle? Can’t we play?”

Bull is so sorely tempted to play with Dorian, really any game the mage could dream up right now. Nope, nope, nope. It’s not the time. Dorian is playing with far fewer pieces than he. It wouldn't be fair. 

“Not in the mood, big guy. I’ll keep you warm, though.” Bull takes Dorian’s hands in his own.

“But I wanted to-” Dorian gets distracted by the rough texture of Bull’s palms. His fingers trace the cracks and lines and he seems to forget what it was he wanted.

“Come on.” Bull urges, closes his hands around Dorian’s firmly and pulls up gently.

“Will you carry me to bed?” Dorian looks up expectantly. “My legs aren't working.”

“There's nothing wrong with your legs.” The big man hauls the mage to his feet. “See? So, no, I'm not going to carry you ten feet. Let’s go.”

“But you're so big and strong!” Dorian grabs a handful of Bull’s backside. “Look at all this- these muscles!”

_So first I’m squishy, now I’m muscle bound._

“So naff! I hate you guys! Full up to the max of bullocks.” Sera laments.

“Bullcocks!” The Inquisitor chimes in excitedly. They then resume earnestly inspecting their empty bottle, wondering where the wine has gone.

“Yes, _please_.” Dorian tries and fails to get under Bull’s belt and down the back of the brightly coloured trousers.

Sera flops over backwards with a disgusted squawk. 

It's everybody's bedtime.

“Hate to be camp dad, guys, but all three of you need a drink of water and eight solid hours of shut eye.” Bull’s had plenty of experience corralling drunk mercenaries, knows when it’s time to curb the party. 

Dorian is lead easily enough into the tent with their bedding, hand still caressing Bull’s ample butt cheeks.

“Am-am I embarrassing you?” The man asks as he fumbles with the buckles on his boots.

“No. Take a lot more than a hand on my ass to make me blush.” The Bull ties the tent flaps shut.

“Then how come you won't kiss me?”

“Aw, baby... cause you’re pretty far gone. I don’t like fooling around when we’re on different levels. And I don’t want you to feel awkward in the morning. Hang kissing. Say the sober word and I’ll fuck you in the castle square.”

One big hand pulling the short, dark hair, forcing a sharp arch in the man’s back, displaying his sweaty, overfucked O-face to an appreciative audience. Purely egocentric fantasy, showing off how good he can make Dorian feel. Nothing witty or snarky passing the dark lips. Nothing at all aside from delirious ‘unf-unf’s and sobs of Bull’s name, frantic squeals for more fat cock to be jammed deeper, harder into too tight an ass.

_Unless you want a massive boner you can’t do a damn thing with, halt that train of thought right now._

“But don't you want to breed me? Isn't that what you said last night? I'll let you.” Dorian on all fours, mouth dangerously close to Bull’s crotch, hips swaying enticingly… it's really not helpful in quelling the rising erection. 

“I'll kiss you now, if you want. You can have more hugs, too. Let’s get you undressed. Up!”

“Really?” There's the rush of elation back, Dorian sits up so he can receive his kisses.

“Ab-” a tiny peck on the forehead, “-so-” one on the nose, “-lutely.” The lips.

With Bull’s help, Dorian manages to shed the last of his layers. The man starts working on the qunari’s belt buckle.

“I appreciate the assist, but don’t think you’re getting any use out of him tonight, little ‘Vint.”

“Drink too much?” Dorian asks, hands trying to tuck under Bull’s waistband, to assess for himself if Bull is actually limp.

He’s not remotely. Bull is tenting impressively in his trousers.

“Hn. One of us certainly has. Do I need to repeat our ground rules? Or can you be a good boy for me and wait for a night?”

“But you’re hard!” Dorian whines, trying to stroke with poorly coordinated motions. “If you’re not drunk, why does it matter? It's okay for me.”

“People don't always make great choices when they drink. I don't ever want to be a part of something you regret later.”

“I won't- I’m fine for, for… I'm not _too_ drunk.” Remarkable slurring belies his condition.

“Maybe I trust your judgement. Not saying I do; you are definitely hammered. Ever consider it’s me I’m worried about? I'm trying to avoid hurting you. I could be too rough with you and you might not know until you get on your horse tomorrow.”

This doesn't deter the man. He's as determined as before to unbuckle the belt and harness.

“You only said you didn’t want to _fuck_ me while I was drunk. We could do other things, couldn’t we? I can suck you off again. I’ll take care of myself, you don’t have to touch me.”

So many ways to have fun without risking pushing him too far. He could get Dorian off without using his dick. Fingers and tongue would work well, weren't large enough to cause any lasting injury...

But Dorian volunteering to jack off in front of Bull? Red flags raising left and right. 

Really and truly _no_. Bull can’t let himself consider what they might do. Even if the rule was made to prevent hurting the smaller man, the letter and the spirit of the rules need to be observed right now. A modicum of self-discipline is necessary.

“Please, Bull, please? I want to. I’ll beg for-” 

“Nope! Not gunna happen tonight. It’s flattering I get you so worked up and all... if you were just a little less tanked, I’d love to pound you. Tomorrow morning I’ll fuck you to within an inch of your life if you’re still horny. But boundaries shouldn’t be renegotiated when we’ve been drinking.” When Dorian is exhausted and emotionally wrung out. When Bull isn’t in a mindset to read him as well as he usually can. “Our rules can be revisited, reworded, completely broken when we’re both sober, when we can have an actual discussion about them. If we outgrow them, we can make up whatever we want to replace what we have now.”

Dorian thinks about this.

“Oh.” He has removed his hands from Bull’s pants, they are resting by the qunari’s knees as the man processes what he has been told. “Should I- may I make up my own rules, too? Or do we just use yours? Could I make up one now?” 

“Absolutely you can make rules. You can make a rule whenever you want to. You don’t have to be sober for that. I won’t let you take it back until I’m sure you’re fully aware of what you're asking for, though.” So long as Dorian doesn’t try to contradict an existing ground rule, he’s well within his rights to express his needs and expect them to be met. “Have I been doing something you don’t like? Something you’d like me to stop?”

“I like those- what we do.” Dorian lays down on his side so he is still facing The Bull. Spins or the day may be catching up with him. “Even when I don’t know I will to start with, I almost always do afterwards. Hugs, please? I’m cold.”

Now that’s an unsettling thing to hear spoken so frankly. Not the request for snuggles or their accompanying warmth, Bull’s okay with that. He lays down, too, head and horns propped up on his palm so he can drape his free arm over the mage. Dorian scoots closer.

“You’re saying we’ve been doing stuff you’re not comfortable with? Why wouldn’t you tell me I’m asking for you to go outside your comfort zone?”

“Hm? No, I like the- the…” Dorian inserts his right forefinger into his left fist. “You know? I can’t say “no” to you. All of.. are so, so good. You do all the of good ones. Mm. So sleepy when you smell so...”

Crap. Dorian is rapidly approaching an alcohol saturation point where his responses won’t be constructive. It’ll be hard to pick this conversation up in the morning if Dorian doesn’t want to.

“Hang on, don’t fall asleep just yet.” Bull shakes the man’s shoulder. “Why don’t you think you can say “no” to me?”

“Because you’re so nice to me! I want to be good for you.” Dorian smiles so his upper incisors are partially exposed. “I like people being nice to me. Mostly nobody likes me. Do... d’you know a woman spit _on_ me in Library lats- last week?” 

“I didn’t know that. That’s not okay.” More than not okay. It’s heartbreaking.

Bull had known many in Skyhold didn’t trust a Tevinter to not have ulterior motives for befriending the Inquisitor. He’d harboured his own suspicious at first. Dorian had come off too perfect to be true. Only weeks of watching the mage very, _very_ closely proved Dorian was what he initially appeared to be: a hot, drunken mess with a desperate need for approval, a drive to do the right thing. Bull hadn’t assumed it was worse than insults (mostly whispered, sometimes shouted) and vulgar gestures.

“It made me sad.” Dorian’s face is more pensive than upset. “I’d never even seen her before. Uhg! _People_. Oooh, that reminds me- story. Did you know, when you came and seat-sit?- sat? Why does that sound wrong? Anyway, that was the first time.” 

“Um, yeah, ‘sat’ is right. All trade sounds kind of weird to me, to be honest.” Bull considers if he should let Dorian trail off but thinks better of it. “What did I do?”

“Sat.” The man nods satisfied. “Yes, s’right. In the chair next to mine. At the Maiden. First time. D’remember? I was alone.”

In spite of Dorian’s rambling, Bull does remember the occasion he’s referencing. He recalls with perfect clarity coming into the Singing Maiden to further investigate the Inquisitor's most recent pet stray. Because he damn sure as hell _does not_ remember the insane story the Herald spouted after stumbling out of a rift with their new foreign pal. The altogether too enthused Altus corroborated the tale, insisted The Iron Bull and he had fought demons, Venatori, and a sad-eyed Magister side-by side in some hellish future-scape that was never to be. But Bull hadn’t really bought it.

You never could trust the pretty ones. After all, how could something be in the past and in the future at the same time, yet have been prevented from happening all together? Who knew what lies the mage had spun to bamboozle the Inquisitor. It was more likely this Dorian was a spy using a clever tongue and flashy attire to hide in plain sight. Bull himself had used his size and boisterous nature to do similarly.  

 _He’d entered the tavern and quickly spotted the Tevinter tucked into a corner by himself. The man’s fine brown fingers nervously traced the lip of his glass before it was raised and drained in a single, swift motion. The Tevinter tried unsuccessfully to hale a serving girl for another. She breezed cooly past him._  

_Rather than make a fuss, the man looked dismally into his empty glass with a frown and made no more attempts to gain her attention. Bull continued to study the lone figure from by the bar._

_His clothes, which at first glance appeared gaudy and expensive, were worn and faded. Rips at the hems had been hand sewn with small, careful stitches. Kohl lined tired, sad eyes. The nail of the man’s right thumb was split near the edge, likely the result of worrying it with and index or ring finger. His complexion was verging on sallow. His collarbones looked too prominent._

_This wasn’t an arrogant, haughty Magister. It was a young man who was very far away from home. Dorian had looked frightened, cold, hungry, and terribly, completely alone._

Only an unfeeling asshole wouldn’t have sat down with him. Pride would have prevented Dorian from accepting free food, but allowed Bull to offer drinks in exchange for an uninterrupted retelling of the craziness in Redcliffe. The uncontained eagerness with which Dorian had lapped up the attention was sweet. Perhaps it was why Varric would eventually term the mage "Sparkler;" Dorian was absolutely dazzling once you got him going. His eyes, his smile, his mannerisms... the dynamic moderation of tone as his excitement increased- flashy, but mesmerising.

The timidity dissolved as he took more ale, until finally the mage was leaning over the table, speaking rapidly with animated gestures about a childhood fascination with Qunari social hierarchies and how personal freedoms could pale in comparison to being utilised for your full potential unless the stories about binding mages were true. The compulsion to sweep the delightful little ‘Vint up into a much needed bear hug was tough to suppress. 

Even though, if memory served correct, the conversation had devolved into Dorian snarling about something or other before storming out.   

Was it alcohol or Dorian that made Bull so wistful? A firm shake of the head disperses the memories and brings Bull back to the present.  

“Of course I remember. You were a pain in the ass from the get go. You had no problem saying no to almost every word out of my mouth then.”

“Did I? I’m sorry.” Dorian shivers against Bull’s chest.

“S’okay. I like a guy with his own opinions. Might as well stick it in a training dummy otherwise. You cold, there?”

“Yes, very. Can I have my- the warm thing?”  

“The what?” Bull halts in unfurling the plush bed roll. 

“The warm- it’s scratchy and brown? Plus: fuzzy. My present.”

His present? Bull looks around the tent in confusion before he deduces Dorian is asking for his shawl. It was such a practical gift, Bull hadn’t really considered it as such.   

“Thank you.” The vowels are drawn out extra long as Bull wraps the shawl around Dorian. “I didn’t before, did I?”

“Didn’t what? Thank me? No, you told me it was itchy.” It’s said with a vast amount of fondness. With appreciation for Dorian and his Dorianisms.

“It _is_ itchy. Not for any of them, then? I thought I did. They were all the best presents. I like you giving me things. I wish I got them for you. But I don't know what is good?” 

“I think you might be confused. I don’t buy you presents. Irregardless-” 

“Tsk! Not a word.” Just because one isn’t able to form sentences, one should still be aware of the rules of grammar.

“ _Regardless_. I wouldn’t get you a gift because I wanted you to give me one back. Doesn’t that defeat the whole purpose of gift giving? Don’t stress about it, I’ve never actually _bought_ you a present.”

“But you have!” Dorian props himself up on his forearms to look up at Bull. “You got me the- the- for scribbling… ink! You got the ink, the little gold buttons, and the…  ah, you remember… the," whispered: " _undergarments_.” 

Funny. None of the aforementioned items were intended to be “gifts.” The Bull bought the ink because he noticed Dorian was running low. Bull uses it from time-to-time, too. The buttons were to replace the ones he’d popped off a nice coat in his haste to disrobe the man. And the underthings were more for The Bull than for Dorian. The mage would never buy himself anything _pink,_ though it is Bull’s favourite colour.

But if Dorian does need something, why shouldn’t Bull buy it for him? Why must it be considered a present? So what if the ink was imported from Vol Dorma, the buttons purchased to replace ones made of brass, and the panties worth more than all the rest in Dorian’s wardrobe put together? Bull makes more than Dorian, by far and away.    

A point of contention between them, actually. Dorian doesn’t consider his stipend, doesn’t even count it when it’s dropped off in his room. Bull thinks back on their only verbal argument about it.

 _The knock at the door had them both glancing up. Dorian tutted in annoyance, dropped the thick leather bookmark down between the pages of his book before standing to answer._  

_“Lady Montilyet sent me, ser. This is for you.” The boy handed off the heavy, jangling envelope._

_Dorian took the envelope but didn’t offer more than a grunt in thanks before slamming the door in the boy’s face. When it’s just the two of them again, the man chucked the package onto his bed (almost hitting Bull, thanks so much) and sat to resume his reading._

_“You should be more careful with your money.” The Bull advised, scooping up a handful of spilled coins and sliding them back in with the others. “What's this for, anyway?”_

_“Hm?” Dorian's eyes had bounced up from the text, his head tilting, before falling back down. “Stipend. I don't know what they want me to use it for. I think of it as my monthly drink allowance.”_

_“This is for the_ month _?” Bull had asked for and received, with no argument, four or five times this apparent amount a week._

_“I'm honestly surprised they pay me at all. I barely do anything around here.” Dorian didn't look up this time, silently mouthed a line he didn't understand in his book._

_Staying up until the asscrack of dawn to assist others with their research and then running out into the woods to battle demons didn't qualify as “barely anything” to The Bull._

_“You should ask Josephine to pay you more.”_

_“And why, pray tell, should I do that?”_

_“You work hard, you're worth more than this.” Bull shook the envelope to jingle its contents._

_“Am I? I've never been aware of my monetary worth. It has fluctuated over the years. How much is in there?”_

_“You don't even know what they pay you?” Bull was dumbstruck._

_“Close your mouth, you're letting flies in.” How Dorian knew Bull’s mouth was hanging open with his back to the big man was anyone's guess._

_“You don't even count it? What if Josie just gave you a bag full of coopers? Wouldn't that piss you off?”_

_Mercenary 101: no haggling, have a set price, get payment upfront so no one tries to give you a bag of rice instead of silver and gold._

_“Not particularly. This room is free, so is food in the barracks. If I don't mind wearing drab robes, I can have them at no cost as well. If I don’t want to look like Solas… Eh, it would mean more shitty beer and less whiskey. But Cabot is more than happy to let me run a tab whenever I'm short. He seems to be one of the only people who trusts me around here._

_“And, though this sort of undermines my previous point, I can always ‘liberate’ wine from the cellar if I'm completely broke.”_

_“Shit, Dorian, just...shit. You're getting totally screwed here.” Tired of hearing non-answers, Bull had dumped the contents of the package onto the bed. Maybe ten sovereigns worth total._

_“If I really cared about money, I would not have left Qarinus.” The man was starting to sound peeved his studies kept getting interrupted._  

_“You can't even live off this let alone save up anything.”_

_“Save up-” Dorian let the book drop into his lap page unmarked, turned around entirely exasperated. “I don't even know if I am going to survive the month. None of us do. What the fuck am I supposed to be saving up for?”_  

_“Anything. More frilly man panties, I don't know. Are you not expecting to survive this?”_

_“That entirely depends on what “this” is. I have no expectations past facing down the Mad Magister everyone seems to blame Tevinter for. If I deal the killing blow, sure! I'll ask Josephine to give me my weight in gold. Is that good enough?_

_“Also, I don't wear “panties.” I won't make apologies for taking pride in my appearance. What are your drawers made of? Canvas and shit stains?”_

_“I don't wear any.”_

_“Oh, then please let me take advice from you on mine. Jackass.”_

The Bull had gone to Josie to protest on Dorian's behalf, impressed upon her the importance of not mentioning his meddling. It may have escaped Dorian's notice the envelopes which came later were slightly heavier, but he wasn't dull enough to not notice they came bi-weekly ever after.

The man made no comment, but did buy a lock box to stash some of his earnings in. Bull caught sight of it as Dorian added or removed coins from it before placing it back behind his dresser. 

Hardly the time to be thinking about their disparate incomes. Come back to the moment and focus on the issue at hand. Bull doesn't buy things for Dorian to coerce dubious consent: he buys things for Dorian because the man is an idiot with no sense of fiscal responsibility or entitlement.

“You don't owe me for any of that junk. I've never gotten you anything worth anything.”

Dorian grabs at his shawl, nestles into the rough cloth.

“Don’t say that. This is my favourite. Better than all the ones. It's worth everything. Or at least it was until- until…” 

He sighs deeply before bursting into loud, wailing tears.

“What? What's wrong?” Bull is suddenly terrified Dorian has realised the matted sheep hair isn't worth taking a _donkey dick_ over. “Baby, what's wrong?”

“I- I-” The man buries his face in Bulls chest. “I’ve ruined it!”

“How?” It's not possible to ruin a musty old square of wool. “How could you have possibly-”

“ _Bull_ , I- I- I… I _washed_ it.”

“Uh?” The texture still looks the same as it always has. Bull still doesn’t follow- 

“It doesn't smell anything like you anymore! That's what was good. It's _ruined_ now.”

Bull loses it at that. He shouldn't laugh this hard, shouldn't laugh at all. Not when Dorian is sobbing and so clearly distraught. His daily limit for adorable, drunken nonsense has been exceeded.

“Holy fuck, Dorian. I want to tell you you're being stupid- on some level you have to know you're being stupid- but- _fuck!_ You're just too precious for words right now.”

“B-but I-”

“Hey, hey. Relax.” This is a fantastic gift he's getting. Never got anything better in his life. “I'm going to tear something laughing this hard. It's okay, really it is. Can I have the shawl back real quick? Let me get you under the covers.”

Dorian lets Bull guide him into the bedroll, hands trying to wipe away tears, only succeeding in smearing his makeup around.

“I'm sorry, I'm-”

“Dorian, I'm really going to need you to shut it. You are so goddamn drunk right now. You're going to be so embarrassed tomorrow already. Here, give me this.” Bull stars to pull the shawl away. “I'm going to make you a deal, okay?” 

“W-what is i-it?” 

“I'm going to hang onto this,” a few little kisses gets Dorian to release the wool “and I'm gunna wear it all day tomorrow. Then you can have it back and I swear it'll stink so bad you'll be bitching about it for the rest of the week.”   

“You p-promise?” 

“Yeah, this is an actual, factual guarantee. But I need you to take a few deep breaths for me. Can you do that?”

Dorian nods and tries to regulate his breathing.

“That's my good boy. Make some room for me. I'll rub your back while you black out. Fucking-a, though. I'm not going to let you live this down, you know. Shh, now, shhh. I'll make fun of you in the morning, so just calm down for tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New house, new job, new sweet thang to smoosh booties with....
> 
> I may have to go back through all this and do an overhaul, but it feels so nice to post what I've been sitting on for so long.


	6. Contusions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More back stuff

Of all the Circles and tutors he'd experienced, the Order of the Argent had been the worst by far.

When his escort dropped him off in the stark marble lobby Dorian already had a sense this was different than before. His staff was handed over; bags and pockets were searched thoroughly, his personal belongings handled without the slightest care; the rings on his fingers, the bangles on his wrists taken, sealed away in an envelope before being locked in a cabinet. Clever children sometimes brought enchanted items with them to make trouble.

“You may wait in the library while we finish preparing your room.” The stone faced woman who’d raided his pockets advised as she handed back his birthright (the only piece of jewelry he’d be allowed).

The library was stocked so scarcely one might have thought The Order advocated illiteracy as well as temperance. Dorian picked over the beaten copies of Chantry propaganda. The rising urge to make a run for it spiked as he thumbed through one booklet, then another, and another…

They were all hand written. Poorly enough to have been completed by someone younger even than himself. Or someone his own age who had spent many years here, without the benefit of a personal calligraphy instructor.    

“Memorisation by rote.”

Dorian nearly jumped out of his skin. He hadn’t heard the door open, the room’s new occupant enter. The speaker wore austere, dark robes and was unadorned by jewelry or baubles save a silver signet ring. He looked as ancient and timeworn as the library furnishings.

“I apologise for startling you. It is good to see young people so enamoured of literature they forget their surroundings. I was very much the same way when I was a child.”

“I would not call this trash literature. This,” Dorian held up the booklet, “is obsessive compulsive. The product of disturbed minds.”

“Does it disturb you? Why is that?”

“It does not disturb me- it _bores_ me. I’ve always been under the impression mindless repetition was the worst way to study a subject.” Dorian preferred to read and discuss, to learn underlying or general theories for broader application.  

“It depends on what one is learning. Would you not agree?” The old man took a seat behind the heavy, wooden desk.

“I would not. Well… maybe it’s important when learning letters or numbers. Core concepts. Not good for much else, though.” Dorian tossed one of the handwritten books over his shoulder.

A very soft chuckle, dusty velvet scraping against threadbare silk.

“Core concepts? That is one way to look at Chantry teachings. They are necessary for a happy and successful life. Please- be seated.” He shuffled through the papers on his desk, tapped a stack against the polished wood to straighten the sheets.

The “please” did not make the instruction a request. Dorian straightened, did not sit.

“No, thank you. I prefer to stand.”

“As you will.” The old man went over the forms before him, jotted down a note before looking back up. “My name is Magister Cognitius, I am the Head of our Chapter. I’ve been over your transcripts since we received them, Master Pavus, they make for a fascinating study.  You’ve been to quite a few Circles in only a few short years, I gather.”

“You could say I've been around.” Dorian flicked a bit of lint from his sleeve.

“Yes, from what I've read and gleaned from your father, one could certainly say so. But we don't tolerate any sort of mischief here. We have very strict rules which you'll be expected to abide at all times.”

A silver lining? The more rigid institution, often the quicker its instructors snapped.

“Is that so? I might lower my expectations, Lord Cognitius. I'd hate for you to be disappointed.”

“Don’t preoccupy yourself with such trivial concerns, dear boy. I've lived a very long time and have seldom faced regret or disappointment. One among myriad benefits to living discretely and with prudence.” The briefest of pauses and then, “I just adore cardamom tea. Don’t you?”

The question came from flank-side, had Dorian stuttering over a negative response. Was the Circle Head possibly senile? Had Halward once again wasted his money? Dorian could only hope.

This had obviously been a last ditch effort on his father's part- to put Dorian somewhere far from Qarinus, far from temptations, somewhere it was impossible for him to get into trouble. Halward had been so sure he'd be able to prevent Dorian from debauching himself but had objectively failed.

Exhausted by his son’s behaviour, his father had written every institute in the Imperium asking about their security measures, their discretionary policies, their success rates. No one wanted to take on _that Pavus boy_ , but more than a few replies mentioned a place which might.

The Order of Argent was possibly the last line of defense for the parents of hopeless truants and reprobates- for an absolutely unreasonable fee, they guaranteed their ability to set anyone straight. As iron-fisted an institute as could be found. A veritable prison and the unwilling Dorian’s new home-away-from-home.

“No? I'd love a cup about now. You're welcome to sit and join me if you like.” Cognitius rang a brass bell, placed it back on his desk carefully. “Should we go over some of the rules while we wait?”

Dorian waved off the offer. It would be a waste of the old man's time. Even if the rules were plainly laid out before him, he hadn’t the slightest intention of following them.

“We have curfew, of course.” His dismissal was ignored. “Tonight you won't be penalised for breaking it, I know you've travelled a long way. For the rest of your residency here, you will be in bed by seven sharp. We do bed checks at seven fifteen. You will be expected to be up and dressed for prayer and benedictions at four bells tomorrow morning… and every thereafter. A servant will be by to wake you at three for your first few weeks here. After that, it will be your responsibility to be on time at the chapel.”

“You have got to be fucking-”

“We also do not permit the use of curse words.”

 _Fuck_ that. Fuck, fuck, fucking _fuck_ all of that. He was thirteen and a quarter, Dorian did not need this nugshit.

“Fuck is not a swear word.” Now he took the offered seat, made his expression bold and haughty as he pleased. “It's to do with bodily function, which makes it an _obscenity_. Shit, ass, and piss would all fall under the same category. Now if I'd said damn or hell, or even Andraste’s hairy cun-”

“You're a very bright lad. No one here will argue with you over that. I understand you must be very frustrated, no doubt you are used to a more permissive atmosphere. There is always an adjustment period when we go through a big life change. But I must warn you, we do not spare the rod to spoil the child within the Order.”

Utterly laughable: if all they planned on doing was beating him, they'd be sorely dissatisfied in the results. Physical pain was finite, was definable and discrete. Dorian was very good at compartmentalising it. He’d intentionally burned and cut himself before, largely out of academic curiosity, and found the sensations oddly enjoyable.

“I'd be curious,” Dorian leaned forward, “to see your admissions and culmination rates side by side. Do many of your pupils go on to complete their Harrowings? Or do most succumb to despair demons within these wretched walls out of desperation?”

“Your father asked a similar question. I'd be happy to provide you with our records as well. You might just surprise yourself- if you are willing to put in the work. You _do_ have to be willing to put in the work.”

“I am quite willing to do whatever is in my best interest.” Very nearly spit across the desk.

“Do believe me when I tell you it is very much in your best interest. Your parents would not have sent you here otherwise. You're father cares a great deal for you.”

“So he would say. I've always been of the impression he cares more for his reputation, of how I might sully it.”

The door to the library creaked open. So there had to be a trick, an intentionality, to getting it to open without sound. The old man peeping and trying to observe his new charge unaware. Dorian could not afford to turn away and assess the new occupant, he kept his eyes locked on Cognitius’.

“Here is your tea, ser.” The gentle tones of a young woman broke the silence as a tray was placed on the desk between the two. Her voice, though sweet, was bizarrely hollow. “May I get you anything else?”

Despite his mistrust for the old bastard sitting across from him, Dorian wrenched his gaze to the woman beside him. There was… something off about her. No inflection to her words, no light in her brown eyes. Her blonde hair had come loose from its plait yet she made no move to brush it from her expressionless face. Under her bangs… a dull but unmistakable glint.  

“Thank you, my dear. Will you pour?” Cognitius sat back, allowed the woman to serve them both. “This is Master Pavus, Viribalia. He’s going to be studying with us until his Harrowing.”

“I am very happy to meet you, Master Pavus.” Viribalia dipped in a shallow curtsey, nothing of her belying pleasure she was doubtless unable to feel. “I hope you have a pleasant stay with us.”

“That’s all for now, dear, I will ring when we need you again.”

Dorian watched the Tranquil leave the room with a shudder. He had never seen one in person before, had assumed they were a myth, like the Dalish drinking baby blood in the South or Qunari wearing human skins in Seheron. Yet here one stood in the flesh- and little else.

A mage robbed of her nature, severed forever from the Fade and the deep wells of magic and power which thrummed throughout it.  

The mana which had once coursed her veins concurrent with her very life blood was drained away; essence carved out leaving only an emptied shell. Certainly by force. No one with the gift could ever give it up voluntarily. An unthinkable violation for any one mage to enact on another.

“What have you people done to her?” Dorian finally pulled his attention from the closed door to direct his horror at the responsible party.  

“Ah. That is something of a tragic story. She was such a bright and talented young lady. So much potential lost.” The old man drank from his tea, lost in the memory. “She came to us about six years ago. I was very confident we would be able to help her get better. But Viribalia was reluctant to accept any aid.”

“So Tranquility is the price of, what, willfulness? Promiscuity?” _Homosexuality?_ Fury had begun to overtake his fear.

“Oh, my dear boy, no. While it is true she initially came to us over a predilection for female elves, of all things, such perversions are treated easily enough. Viribalia was caught trying to teach the kitchen slaves offensive magic one too many times. She used her, ahem, _charms_ to convince a few serving girls to incite a riot.

“After that, her parents wanted nothing more to do with her. We requested her offenses be reviewed by the senate. She stood accused of Sedition, Treason, and Abuse of Magic. The sentence for the first two crimes is often death by hanging, but I spoke on her behalf at her trial. Given her young age, I urged them to be lenient, to drop the first two charges. We took her in as a permanent ward after the Rite.”

“Abuse of Magic.” Dorian echoed. He could not fathom how teaching someone a spell counted as abuse of anything. Magic- _knowledge-_ didn't belong to anyone. It was to be shared freely, much as the air around them. If a slave showed promise with magic they should be elevated up befitting their nature.

There was no leniency, no mercy in her Tranquilisation. Dorian did not miss the implicit threat Viribalia was intended to demonstrate. The Order had destroyed her for no other reason than to trot out as an example to headstrong deviants like himself. Outrage whited the edges of his vision.

“I can't see how she did anything wrong. You, however, abused your power, your position. What you've done is beyond criminal- it’s an abomination, an affront to the Maker Himself.  It’s your property, they were your slaves. You didn’t have to report her.”

“What would you have suggested we do with her?”

“Her parents didn’t want her. No one was paying you to keep her… You should have just let her go.” Dorian’s heartache was palpable and nauseating.

“She posed a clear and present danger to those around her. She had little education, no employable skills, no money. All she possessed was a desire to instigate a Tyrddian, elven uprising. It would have been irresponsible to allow her back out into the world. Had we “let her go” she or many others would have been dead within months.”

“You could have made her to leave the Imperium, made her go south. She could have had a chance to find happiness.” Did Viribalia have anyone who missed her? Six years was an awfully long time. Was there a pining elf wondering if she would ever return?

Would Rillinius grieve if Dorian never returned?

“I would like to ask you something.” Cognitius tapped his fingers together pensively around his cup. “If you can’t answer me honestly, I want you to be honest with yourself.”

“I guarantee my answers to be honest,” Dorian bit off his bitter musings, “but they won’t take your sensibilities into account.”

“Hm.” The old man considered the comment. “Then I’ll ask bluntly. Are you happy right now?”

Who in all of Thedas would be in this wretched place?

“Given my current predicament, I would have to say no. Positively miserable, at the moment, in this place.”

“That would suggest you were happy back in Qarinus?”

Flashes of Riley: his honey coloured hair and eyes, dark skin, rough hands and soft lips. Stolen moments playing sitar as the sun set, feeding each other candied almonds, mouths brushing fingertips, searching for lingering sugar.

These weren’t memories for a decaying Magister. But the implication Dorian would (or could) only be happy if he played by another’s rules was infuriating. Enough so to make him snap without thinking.

“I have had a handful of instances where I was quite happy, thank you very much.”

“A “handful.”” Cognitius stood and went to the window. “Is that all? I can’t see the costs of those instances were worth it, if they’ve led you to be miserable now. True happiness endures. It does not come from other people, it comes from within. You’ll understand eventually.”

Within himself? Nothing but anger and self-loathing there.  

Though bookended by loneliness and frustration, the snippets of time Dorian had with Rillenius had been worth every penalty paid. Nothing would dim the glimmers of joy which had illuminated his dreary existence. These stone walls around him were temporary, any restriction to his liberty would pass. They had in so many Circles before. Riley was a permanent and fixed point, Dorian’s feelings contant. They would find there way back to each other if only Dorian could withstand what lay immediately before him.

“I invite you to do your worst- I’ve stayed myself through all the rods, rulers, and switches in the Imperium. If it suits you, I’ll even write and rewrite your standards until the bones of my wrists are ground to dust. Threaten what you will. _Do_ what you will. You don’t frighten me. As much as I disgust my father, I know he’d never allow his sole heir to undergo the Rite.”     

“My dear boy, if was never my intent to frighten or threaten you. We all want what’s best for you. But get your rest this evening, and settle in. I will see you tomorrow morning.” 

 

Dorian was initially placed on the fourteenth floor- alongside others deemed flight risks. He only remained there for two weeks. For his plan to work, he needed to be on the fifth floor or lower. Appearing contrite would not have been sufficient to be moved down with the cronic masterbatuers and erotic etching addicts. Convincing his wardens he was not a hopeless queer, but merely an insatiable flirt required tact.

He made a point of flirting first with the other boys, then with boys and girls, and finally with the girls alone. Though the punishment for his intimate indiscretions remained the same despite his chosen marks, a mild whipping was entirely sufferable.  

Once moved to the fourth floor (two doors down from the trouser sniffer), Dorian remained for three months to convince them he was being purged of his sinful ways. His departure needed to catch everyone completely off guard so he might gain the longest start. An odd number of days was best, so they couldn't predict his escape.

Like his room back home, the dorms all locked from the outside.

Was he really so clever or was everyone around him that dense? Why didn't they ever consider the windows? Maybe he had it backwards, perhaps he was the only boy dumb enough to try jumping four stories down into the nettles below.

Dorian enjoyed a challenge. It almost felt as cheating he didn't have to worry about dormmates. While this supposed Circle was co-ed, the dorm rooms were private. His dear old dad was obviously trying to isolate his son from other young men, trying to prevent a relapse into sodomy. He tossed his secretly liberated staff down first, into the bushes so it wouldn't make a clatter. He jumped out after it, got caught on the thorns.

Quite humorous it did not occur to them he might be more interested in living a complete or complex life, rather than in simply getting fucked. Dorian wanted freedom, the right to choose, not just free access to dick. What foolish notions the Circle wardens held about him and his desires. Notions clearly shared by his dear old dad.

Slipping away in the dead of the night… It was so whimsically fantastic, he only wished he had a lute or a bindle. Were those not the markers of the tramp’s trade?

They'd notice quickly he was gone in the morning. He wasn't one to keep his complaints about the bland breakfast served in the commons to himself. It was in his best interest to get as far away as possible.

How furious would Halward be to discover he'd not only lost his son, but the deposit for Dorian's tuition? The young man had ensured he wouldn't be accepted back by trashing his dorm room and defacing the ancient murals, had started a small fire then pissed it out.

He jogged away from the building crouched over to avoid detection. He could try to go back for Riley, but didn't want to risk getting caught or seeing Rilienus hanged for corrupting a magister’s son. Maybe once he'd established a place for himself he could get word to Qarinus somehow.

No. He mentally chastised himself. He would not get him into trouble again. Riley had only been allowed to remain at the estate after Dorian threatened to kill himself. Halward hadn't even tried to call his bluff. Just looked at him with tired, wet eyes before swearing the slave wouldn't be harmed or sold.

Speaking of the old bastard… Where would his father not think to look for him? Somewhere safe and welcoming of his perversions. Moreover, it had to be a place he could earn a living.

Dorian was a handsome boy, he was aware. Dark, graceful, well built. He was doubly blessed by genetics and good luck to have suffered only minimal gangliness in his teenage years. Coupled with the knowledge he knew his way around a cock, one prospective career leapt to mind.

Arithmetic wasn't his best subject, but even he could put one and one together and come up with two.

A couple months at the brothel and already he'd made enough money to consider letting his own room. His duties were much more mundane than he'd anticipated, though.

So sometimes one plus one equalled eleven. Who knew?

The madam had asked how many times he'd had sex. He replied he hadn't actually, but was good at blow jobs. He was good at everything, so he'd probably be good at fucking, too.

The boy who stood in front of her had torn clothes, nettles clinging to his messy hair, scratches on his face and arms. She laughed for a full minute before handing him a broom and dustpan.

“Let's see how good you are at this first.”

He was to spend his time cleaning out the chamber pots and changing out the soiled bed linens of two-silver prostitutes. Once he'd gotten the hang of it, he actually enjoyed hard work. His meals and books were bought with his own honest effort. He slept like a drunken baby at night.

Across the plaza was a massive bath house with a cracked bell hanging above it. He'd walk over with some of the working men and women in the wee morning hours, as the bell clanged first light. He'd listen to their jokes and tales of sexual prowess, enraptured by their lives.

One woman in particular had the best stories. The tales usually ended with _if I could turn back time I'd…_

A painful sentiment, but one he could relate to. It got Dorian thinking.

After the bath house they'd sleep while he scurried about cleaning from the rooftop to the cellar. He'd rouse them all in the evening, collect his tips. Officially off duty, he'd drink himself stupid so he could pass out for a few hours and start again at sunrise.

Andraste, fat titted sucker of the Maker’s cock (he been learning to swear from actual sailors!), he enjoyed his life.

It had been getting close to morning, but he had the next day off so he stayed up drinking. The sensation he was being watched had persisted for hours before he noticed the older gentleman in a silver mask at the bar.

He leaned over the bar, mask glinting in the candlelight, spoke with the madam while pointing in Dorian's direction. She shrugged and mouthed what looked like the word “virgin.” The following gesture she made was dismissive. Dorian's name was not on the board with the others, so he wasn't for rent.

The old man said something further and she did a double take, immediately made a ‘come-here’ motion in Dorian's direction.

Curious, he excused himself from the game of cards (the hand he'd been dealt was absolute shit, anyway) and came towards her. The madam pulled him behind the bar and into the back room.

“That man out there says he'll pay one hundred crowns for an hour in the private rooms with you.”

Dorian didn't think he heard her right.

“One hundred what?”

“Yes, Dorian, ” she was grinning, “one hundred fucking pieces of mother fucking _gold_.”

“I didn't think my ass was worth that much.”

“Nobody's ass is worth that much. You should take it. You'd be set for months. Maybe the rest of the year. You could move out of this shit hole for sure.”

Dorian considered his options. He'd been making decent income just doing laundry. As silly as it was to think, he'd begun to fancy he was saving himself for Riley. If he sold himself for a hundred gold pieces, he'd never be able to buy himself back at any price.

“One hundred sovereigns.” He repeated to make sure he was understanding correctly.

“Minus my eight for the house’s fee.” She replied.

Ninety-two wasn't as nice and round a number, but it was still a lot of money.

“Okay, I'll do it. What do I have to lose?”

She kissed him on the forehead, leaving a big fuchsia smudge. He'd just earned her a few weeks’ cut in an hour’s time.

“I'll get the money up front and hold it for you down here. Go upstairs and get ready, room seven is open if you've already cleaned it. And see if you can work him for extra tips!” She called as he ascended the steps.

He wasn't sure how to get ready, so Dorian washed extra carefully before sitting on the bed. He was still wearing his white linen undergarments, half wishing he'd traded them out for the pale blue ones.

He jumped at the knock on the door.

“It… it's open.” The doors here didn't have locks, but he'd flipped the sign hanging on the door to read ‘in use.’

The masked man entered the room. He stood for a moment in the doorway before coming fully inside.

“You are the most precious peach I've ever seen.”

Dorian didn't have a response, so he didn't offer one.

“What are you doing in a place like this, little peach?”

“Usually I sweep the floors and wash the sheets.” A literal answer, but truthful.

“I see. You're too lovely to be a scullery maid. You should be up here in these rooms.”

“I'm up here now.”

The man chuckled. Dorian wasn't trying to be funny.

“I suppose you are. Let me get undressed. Stay as you are for now.”

He guided the nervous boy back on the bed, rubbed him through his pants. Dorian held his breath as his last article of clothing was slid off.

The were both naked on the bed. Dorian was counting the cracks in the ceiling, hands clasped tightly on his chest to prevent them shaking.

There was no preamble, no kind words exchanged. The older man knelt between his legs and sucked him. When the finger seeking to press inside him was met with resistance, it was brought up to Dorian's mouth.

“Get it wet, peach.”

He did his best to coat the digit with saliva, choking on it before it was pulled away.

“Ah!” The breech was sudden and quick. It wasn't without pleasure, the man's age-gnarled knuckles produced extra stimulation.

“You really are a peach, aren't you? You look delicious.”

The finger continued to pump in and out but a tongue joined it. It was hard to think, to figure out if he should be doing anything specific. When the finger curled up inside him, Dorian couldn't figure out if it was an agreeable sensation or not. Whatever the man was pressing on felt like both too much and not enough.

He didn't know better to ask for more preparation. Dorian gasped as the man's prick crammed into him. He'd seen enough cocks in his life to know the masked man was on the small side, was smaller than even Dorian’s was.

Rather quickly, he decided he _did_ like the feeling of being fucked. The burning sensation of not enough lubricant was erroneously ascribed to being stretched.

He tried to spread his thighs, to take more, but his legs were held fast against the man's chest, crossed at the ankles. When the man leaned forward, Dorian gripped the sheets until his fingers ached.

It felt… so good, so, so, so good. If the man could just keep hitting that spot, right there, right there, Maker just right there, and not stop. He couldn't stop. He needed him to not stop. He needed more, more, just a little bit more.

When a stuttering moan broke over his lips, Dorian realised he'd been speaking the words out loud. Too turned on to be embarrassed, he tried to tilt his hips. He'd do anything for the thrusts to continue.

The prick embedded in him twitched before the man came. Almost too brief for Dorian to have registered it. He pulled out and wiped himself on the sheets before standing to get dressed.

Dorian laid on the sheets stunned it was over so quickly. He expected he'd have a whole hour to come up with something to feel. A total of forty-five seconds from start to finish, his last remaining innocence vanished in a puff of smoke. He wasn't any different from the well-used whores downstairs now.

“Will… will I see you again?” Dorian asked when the man had redressed.

“No, dear, you won't. I only partake of fresh fruit.”

He left without another word.

What a bizarre comment. Dorian resumed counting the cracks in the ceiling, feeling a bit like a bruised peach. His hands rested at his sides, his legs were parted slightly to let the semen between his thighs cool and dry. He must have been in the room a long time.

Another knock at the door and the madam entered without awaiting permission.

“How was it?” She asked, setting down a steaming mug on the nightstand.

“I don't know.” Dorian said, because he truthfully he did not know.

“Did he hurt you?”

“No.”

“What's wrong?”

“I think… I may have just fucked the smallest prick in all of Thedas.”

She laughed heartily, slapped her hand against her knee.

“I'm sorry to hear that.” She reached for the mug and he sat up to accept it.

“What is this?”

“Hot cocoa.”

Dorian frowned. “I don't know if you've heard the news, it really is late in breaking, but I'm not exactly a child anymore.”

“I put whiskey in it.”

Her warning was a beat too late, Dorian coughed and sputtered at the overwhelming taste of alcohol.

“Ahem. So it would seem you did.”

“Probably should have led with that. Sorry, kiddo. Any case, I’ve got your money downstairs whenever you want it. I don't mind acting like a bursar for you, so long as you keep teaching me to read and write. But, if you want to pack up and get the hell out of shit town, no hard feelings.”

As if. Where would he go?

“I actually like it here. I don't want to leave.”

“Oh? Want me to put your name up on the board? We could get you a little gold mask, claim you're half Orlesian. You could be be Spurius Raisón.”

Dorian didn't really want to go through an ordeal like he just had again. Not for a hundred crowns and sure as fuck not for two silver. The next time he had sex, it was going to be on his own terms. It had better last longer than _minute_ , too.

“I don't think I turn a trick half so well as I turn a phrase, so if it's all the same to you I'd like to go back to cleaning your gutters.”

“Suit yourself. Wash up, get dressed. Come down and have something to eat, have some drinks, if you want. You're celebrating on the house tonight.”

 

Alexius had gotten turned around the moment he exited the little shop selling illicit components and potions. He did not require them for illegal purposes (his interest was academic), but it wouldn’t do to bring his personal hansom down these filthy streets. It wouldn't do to be so recognisable in this part of town. His driver had dropped him off at the edge of the slums before returning to the Gilded Quarter to await his return.

He'd turned into the winding alleys, had been assured it was a short cut, but after hours of walking he could say it was not.

“Where the devil am I?”

“The ass end of civilisation, I assure you.”

He'd almost ignored the statement, but turned fully to the speaker when no other assistance appeared available. Given the slurring with which the words were offered, Alexius hadn't expected them to be spoken by such a young person.

His face was flushed from intoxication, his hair sticking upright from running his fingers through it. The boy did not look up from his work, was scribbling notes in an ornate hand while running an ink stained finger over the words in a weighty tome. The book looked old, the subject matter beyond what a child should be interested in.

Something about his face was vaguely familiar.

“Where are you trying to go?” The boy drawled lazily, eyes still fixed on the rapidly filling page beneath his quill.

“Back to the city centre, the Gilded Quarter.” He was hardly about to provide his home address to a surly urchin. “Do you know where the Museum of History is?”

The boy looked up, halting his writing with an impatient sigh. “Of course I do, I'm not some ignorant Philistine.”

His clothes were plain but he was clean, unlike many of the alleyway’s occupants. He was literate, obviously, articulate, and had impeccable penmanship. Alexius wondered what he was doing sitting on the stoop of a- Maker’s Breath- _whorehouse_?

“No? What are you then?”

“Why, I am a cultured Philistine, naturally.” He grinned before he resumed his note taking. When he leaned forward to turn the page of his book, the sun caught a bit of gold hanging around his neck.

“You're an Altus?” It was disgusting to consider, but perhaps the boy was awaiting his father to conclude business with a prostitute. Who would bring their child along on such a ghastly errand?

No, wait. Alexius recognised the emblem; and now the resemblance to his father’s face which had initially scanned as personal familiarity. So this is where the little chap had disappeared off to. Halward had been sick with worry, enough to ask a few trusted allies in the capitol to keep an eye out for his delinquent son.   

Realising his birthright was hanging out, the boy froze. He quickly tucked it away.

“Ah, seems my collar is showing, how embarrassing.” Cheek gave way to fright as he tried to cover it with a small laugh. “You're not a dog catcher, are you?”

What a strange thing to say. Did he know his father was looking for him? Why wouldn’t he want to go home?

“What are you doing in this part of town? It’s not a place for children.” Alexius’ tone was stern. He had a child of his own, close to this one's age

“ _Please_ , I am hardly a child. And I live here.” He pointed a thumb behind him at the whorehouse.

“You don't really?”

An annoyed little huff. As if it were perfectly reasonable for him to live in a baud house.

“I do. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to attend.” He snapped his notebook closed, collected his heavy volume, and stood to leave.

Alexius couldn't leave him here. Could he convince the boy to follow him back into the city, or would it be necessary to call the templars?

“You didn't answer my question.”

“Don't be stupid. I've answered all your questions.” He swayed tipsily on the steps, held an arm out to prevent stumbling.

“You haven’t. You didn't tell me how to get to the museum.”

“You didn't ask me _how_ to get to the museum.” Peeved at an old man's pestering. “You asked me if I knew where it was. I told you I did.”

Alexius followed him inside. He could make out the title of the book from the spine, _The Theoretics of Time as Relevant to Dimension_. When the boy sat down at a table to resume reading it, he sat down next to him.

“What's your name?”

“And what might you do with my name?” The nervousness was back, the boy picking at the frayed cover of his book.

“I'd trade it for mine. You can have it right back afterwards, I promise.” Alexius would try to match his sauce, see if he could draw him out.

“Dorian… Pavus.” He offered it hesitantly. He continued slowly, watching for recognition. “But you can keep my surname. I'm not overly fond of it.”

Alexius did not bother to hide the name was known to him, but gave no indication he was prepared to do anything with the revelation.

“Gereon Alexius.” He held out a hand, not a bit surprised Dorian made no move to shake it. “It's good to meet you.”

“Yes, yes. A pleasure.” Dorian appeared relieved. “I would very much like to finish my work. So if you don't need anything else?”

“I know your father.” Alexius volunteered deliberately, kept his posture neutral, to reassure Dorian he had no ill intent. “He’s very worried about you.”

“Ah, very worried about what I might do to his precious reputation I should suppose.” Dorian considered him with calculating eyes. “Are you a concerned friend of his, then? Or perhaps a political rival set on destroying his good name?”

“I would consider myself a friend of Halward’s.”

Suspicion rehoned the stare which had previously been made dull with drink.

“So you are a dog catcher. I’m not particularly keen to return home, tail between my legs. I- I don’t know what Halward has paid you. I’m afraid I don’t have anything of value to barter for my continued liberty. But, is there… perhaps something I might _do_ for you to convince you to return to the kennel empty handed?” The slender brown fingers which kneaded Alexius’ inner thigh were clumsy, his efforts were uncoordinated as he leaned forward in his chair, tipping it precariously.

The idea of using a child in such a fashion made him nauseous. The boy did not seem overly excited about the prospect of offering up his body. Whatever he was running from had to be more horrific in his mind than letting an old man abuse him. Alexius carefully removed Dorian’s hand from its position, placed it on the table, to make it clear he was not interested.

“That’s not necessary. No one sent me to do anything.”

“Hm. Then why are you still here?”

“You still haven't told me how to get to the museum.”

“Uhg!” Dorian threw his hands up in exasperation. “You still haven't _asked_ me how to get to the museum.”

“Very well. How do I get to the museum?”

“Finally!” He picked up his quill to tap the plume pensively against his lips. His eyes lit up. “You hire a carriage.” He had to know his answer was too literal to be particularly helpful.

Alexius couldn't prevent his laughter. This was an exceptionally difficult child. No wonder Halward, for all his impatience, had struggled to rein him in. Clearly, Dorian was bright and delighted in putting his intellect to misuse. He would make a fine pupil if given engaging subject matter to study. As his own son wasn't magically gifted, Alexius _had_ been seeking an apprentice lately...

It would be unconscionable to leave Dorian here in squalor, to waste his gifts. Whatever had brought him to this place, Alexius must be the one to take him away from it.

“I hadn’t been planning on it, but now I’m sort of in the mood to take in some culture. Would you like to go to the museum with me? I'm afraid my own son doesn't get much enjoyment from academic pursuits. It would be nice to have company, someone to discuss the exhibits with. You can bring your book, if you'd like.”

Dorian considered for a moment before nodding.

“There aren't many here interested in _academic pursuits_ , believe it or not. I should enjoy talking about something other than cures for whorelip and natural abortifacients. Hail a carriage, it really is too far to walk. I'll go put my things away.”

The speed with which he rushed up the stairs was endearing, tripping and slipping back down the steps in his drunken haste. Alexius wished Felix could get so excited about the prospect of learning. Maybe Dorian would rub off on him, be a good influence.

He stopped outside the doorway, one hand halted in raising to alert passing carriages. He hadn't realised he made up his mind to coax Dorian back with him. Eager as he was for the museum, perhaps he would be keen to become a magister’s apprentice. Alexius could certainly ask.

 

Living at the Alexius villa in Asariel was divine. Like in Minrathous, there was still the entire Nocen Sea between him and his father. Unlike in Minrathous, he had not only total liberty, but the financial backing to enjoy it.

Dorian had been absolutely terrified when Alexius told him he would have to write Magister Pavus before the apprenticeship could be made official. He was convinced Halward would refuse, demand he be sent back to Qarinus or returned to the Circle in Minrathous. He was elated to tears when only a letter arrived providing consent for Dorian to remain with the Alexius household.

A second letter, addressed to him, was promptly burned unread and unopened. Nothing Halward could write was of any interest to Dorian.

Lady Livia (her name the only thing held in common with his betrothed) was kind, gracious, intelligent. She was so unlike his own mother, present and dotting, treated Dorian no differently than her own son. She sang and played the harpsichord, smiled and danced when she took wine.

She was a scholar of the Fade. When Alexius and Livia sat down together, she put her elbows on the table to better slurp her coffee as they discussed theoretical magic. They invited the boys to join, to contribute their opinions, to ask any questions they might have. Answers were freely given in their home.

Felix, Alexius’ son, was clever and mischievous. What he lacked in magical talent, he made up for with an uncanny propensity towards maths and rapier wit. He was also possessed of a generous and courageous heart. They got into all sorts of hijinks together. Never once did Alexius shout at or chastise them. He patiently reminded them if they had the time for games, they probably had the time to study.

They wandered around the extensive grounds collecting specimens to bring in. Lady Livia would indulge them, let them fill fine crystal bowls with snails, frogs, millipedes and silverfish.

Dorian himself drew the hard line at collecting spiders.

_“I’ll kick you if you try to put another spider on me, Felix. I swear to the Maker I will.”_

_“But this one’s only bitty, see? Don't you want to give it a kiss? Ow! Father, Dorian kicked me!”_

_“Cause and effect, Felix.” Alexius called from the study. He'd been listening to them for a while, trying not to intervene._

Sometimes Felix would name plants and animals and Dorian would attempt to fabricate them using fire magic and smoke. It was exhausting, the amount of control required more than he typically had, but Alexius approved of the practice.

_“That's a pretty good one.” Felix announced after an adder had been produced._

_“Well, snakes are easy. Harder, please.”_

_“As the actress said to the Divine.”_

_“Careful with that blasphemy, Felix. The Maker will curse you and your prick will fall off.”_

_“Oh, my blushing butt cheeks- no!”_

And- oh!- the library. It was positively gargantuan! Books, books, books! Dorian nearly tripped over himself, bounding from one end to the other. Reading the spines alone was more educational than years spent in various Circles.

“May I take one back to my room?” Dorian pleaded one night after dinner, bouncing on his toes, holding one about the Veil tightly to his chest.

“Take as many as you like. Felix will help you carry them. And he will help you read them, too, if he knows what's good for him.” Alexius smiled as he watched Dorian pull books from the shelves, asking Felix what he thought might be fun to read.

“Reading isn't fun.” Felix was perplexed at how excited Dorian got over studying.

“It is so! Don't you want to know things? I want to know absolutely everything.”

Alexius had watched them climb the stairs, laden down with a half dozen books each, and shook his head. It might be too much to hope Felix would ever match Dorian's zeal for academics.

 

Dorian was grateful for everything Alexius had done for him, for giving him a home, a family. As he stepped back into his room to ready himself for bed, there was one thing he was irrationally grateful for.

He slid the bolt into place on his lock, the click it made satisfying enough to send a shiver down his spine. He wasn't planning on doing anything inappropriate, wouldn't dare abuse Alexius’ generosity, but it was comforting to know he could secure himself against the world.

He curled up on the bed, a high loft nestled beneath the exposed wooden eaves, and pulled out one of the many books from the shelf beside his bed. He was perhaps halfway through it but started at the beginning to verify he'd understood the earlier concepts.

Dorian had a hard time falling asleep most nights. He was frightened he would wake up and find his life in Asariel had been only a dream. That he would wake still in the brothel, or the Circle, or worst of all in Qarinus. It took dozens of pages of dry reading material to reaffirm this was reality, he'd never bore himself unduly in his dreams.

He was excited for the morning, Alexius had promised they would go out into the field and practice necromancy on some dead pheasants too long left in the larder for consumption. He'd had excellent success with the beetles and grasshoppers he found still by the window ledges. His patron confounded and then enchanted by the little army of undead soldiers marching across his desk.

As Alexius’ apprentice, any accomplishments Dorian managed reflected on his patron. And Alexius was never shy about heaping praise on his ward’s efforts. The fledgling mage would do anything in his power to repay the kindness he was shown. Dorian worked tirelessly to ensure their shared success.

Sleep finally found him as he was re-reading page 143, the book dropping away as he dozed off on the soft duvet cover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been editing this off and on for too damn long. I may go back and edit some more, may add back in more little Felix and Dorian interactions. Who knows?
> 
> Anyone want to be my co-pilot on this? Sounding board? 
> 
> Y/N/M?


	7. Salves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5/20- this is the first half of the chapter. Second half will be porn-y, but I'm looking for notes or feedback on this bit first.

As much as The Bull wanted Dorian to get some sleep, eight hours twisting, racked by night terrors was not entirely preferable to the man sitting up all night. Bull tried to wake Dorian a few times but eventually gave up when the task proved impossible. He only succeeded in getting the mage to make brief, bleary eye contact. It didn't seem like Dorian was fully aware of Bull’s words, and being woken just seemed to confuse him.

So Bull tried not to disturb what little, clearly perturbed, sleep the man was getting. He did his best to rest while Dorian twitched in the throes of a nightmare. One of them needed to be able to fight if it came to it.

Too soon, the chirping of birds alerted Bull to the dawn. He was stiff all over from tensing every time Dorian unexpectedly jerked or jolted. A long stretch to limber up sounded like heaven, but it was only in the small hours of the morning Dorian seemed to drift into a deep slumber. It would be cruel to move and rouse him now. Besides, the Inquisitor had been allowing Dorian to set their pace. They wouldn't be rude enough to try and rouse the pair if they slept in.

Laying in afforded him the opportunity to study Dorian’s face, to search for clues to what he’d been dreaming about only a short while ago. 

Bull was saddened to admit he knew very little about Dorian’s life before the forming of the Inquisition. Sure, he’d overheard a few snippets here and there while the mage spoke softly with the Inquisitor. He knew the man’s father was an abject asshole- anyone who made Dorian cry absolutely had to be. He even knew the grey and gasping young man who’d arrived at Skyhold with the time-disrespecting magister was a (likely the only) childhood friend of Dorian’s.

_ Like... a brother. _ Dorian had said of Felix when the young man returned to the Imperium.

But the whole of Dorian’s utterance ( _ “Like losing a brother all over again” _ ) had been lost on the qunari. 

Had Dorian ever had (and lost) biological siblings? His entitlement to mattress space, to the last bites of cakes, to final says in arguments heavily suggested “only child.”

Then had Dorian lost Felix before? He was certain to lose the sick man very soon, very permanently, if the cough was anything to go by. Had Dorian and Felix ever…?  

“...because that’s what… didn’t she?”

Dorian’s dreamy mumbling caught the edge of Bull’s focus before he drifted too far away. The poor thing. A confused, drunken, distraught and terrified man. Caught between two disparate worlds, trying desperately to escape- to defy- all expectations and became a man worthy of admiration and love. 

It was utterly un-Qunari to think, much less say, but the trying was enough. Even where Dorian fell short, his efforts were commendable. If only he could moderate his indulgences (of which self-loathing could be counted) he’d be perfection itself.

“She totally did, big guy.” Bull smoothed down Dorian’s hair, kissed his untidy moustache. 

The man might be a hot mess, but for better or worse, he was The Iron Bull’s hot mess. 

 

Getting up was an impossible inevitability. 

Dorian grumped and grumbled about a splitting headache while rubbing his heavy-lidded eyes. When prodded to eat something, he snarled that he wasn’t a child and didn’t need to be told what to do. Bull could only raise his hands in defense.

“Always acting like a clucking mother hen. Cremisius did warn me about you. Why I didn’t listen to my countryman, I’ll never know.” Dorian was half in the tent, rifling through their piled clothes and muttering obscenities.

“One of the great mysteries in life, big guy, why you don’t take good advice when we offer it to you. What are you looking for?”

“Something  _ warm _ . It is so unbelievably cold. Every second of every day is always so unbelievably cold.” Dorian sat back with an exasperated huff. “Have you seen my shawl?” 

_ Great: an absent-minded inebriate. _

“You asked me to take it. I put it in my pack.” 

“I did nothing of the sort.” The man was already on his feet and storming forward. 

“You so di-” But The Bull didn’t want Dorian on the warpath, quickly provided the missing article. “You’re right, my mistake, I must have misunderstood you.

The qunari loved his hot mess, but that didn’t mean he had to like him at all times.

 

The morning continued on without major event. The party didn't encounter any rebel mages or renegade Templars, but in the early afternoon the mage nearly fell off his horse when a fennec darted in front of it. Though the mount reared up less than a foot off the ground, Dorian was off in another world and hadn't even been _ holding _ the reins. He'd managed to stay seated by frantically clutching at the pommel and horn of his saddle. 

Bull wasn’t quite so lucky. 

The qunari overextended in his attempt to grab hold of a belt and prevent Dorian from tipping over, was unseated himself and crashed to the ground. His dracolisk continued forward, with his foot caught in the stirrup, dragging him face down a ways. 

“That's it! We’re stopping for the day!” Bull used his firmest, no nonsense-iest tone. “There’s no way you’re making it all the way to the next campsite.” It took effort to sit upright (while being towed along the icy, pebbly earth) to get his ankle brace unstuck from the stirrup. 

“Don't be silly, it's hardly midday. I can certainly endure an afternoon’s ride without spontaneously dismounting.” Dorian had a hand over his heart, face pale from the adrenaline rush of nearly toppling ass over tea-kettle, watching The Bull actually fall. His free hand was gripping the reins tightly as he leaned over the prone qunari. “Although it may be another story for you. Do you, ah, require some assistance?”

It was dubious the mage would be able to lift the big man back onto his feet. Bull told him as much in no uncertain terms. He wouldn’t have fallen at all if Dorian had just gone to bed when he was supposed to, stayed in bed when he should have, had been paying the slightest amount of attention to his surroundings.

“Suit yourself, you horn-heavy--” Dorian stuttered over an appropriate insult before settling on, “ass!” He clicked his tongue to urge the horse forward. If he pressed on now, Bull didn’t think he would be able to convince him to stop again until nightfall. If they ran into danger further along the path, Dorian didn’t look like he had the energy to cast the simplest of protective spells. Snark wouldn’t shield any of them from bandits and bears.

_ Too proud? Or don’t you care you’re going to get yourself, probably me, too, killed? Guess I have to make an  _ ass _ of myself to get you to listen. _

“What’s the hold up?” Sera had come back around to take a look. 

“Eh, nothing. I’ll be- ow! Ow, crap, ow!” Hissrad was good at acting, didn’t feel Bull’s shame to play up old injuries. There was always some part of his body aching, so this wasn’t really a lie.

“What is it? What wrong?” Poor Dorian, off the horse and alongside Bull in an instant, trying to help prop the big man up. Sturdy as he was, he made a poor crutch for a massive qunari. 

“It’s just my knee. Must have pulled it weird. Don’t worry about it, big guy.” He feigned the difficulty of placing weight on it. “I just need to stretch it for a moment. It’ll be fine.”

“Don’t be a baby.” Sera snipped, glaring down from her horse. “Bet you’re not even bruised. Got more ‘an enough padding to protect you, ya big lump.”

“Sera! That isn’t very nice! Can’t you see he’s hurt?” Dorian’s pause was uneasy. The necromancer had next to no experience with keeping the living upright. “I- I’m afraid I’m not very good with healing magic. I’ll just make things worse if I tried. But I might have something, an ointment or some such, in my bag for it. Is it a bone or a, uh, ligament issue? Why don’t you sit down for a moment and I’ll have a look.” 

Distressing the already overwrought man made Bull feel lousy, but he couldn’t risk them continuing on with Dorian in his present state. It was imperative to safeguard the headstrong mage, to keep him from harm. The Bull didn’t even allow himself to enjoy the sappy, syrupy notion Dorian cared enough for him to get so upset over a little tumble. Not for  _ too _ long, anyway.

“Really, it's not that bad. I wouldn't mind a sprig of elfroot to chew on, if you can find one around.” 

“Oh! I have very literally dozens in my bag. One moment.” One might have suspected Dorian would.

“He’s not even-” The elf curbed herself. She was still put out over the coffee incident yet was unwilling to alienate Dorian to make her point. “Whatever. Coddle the whiny klutz if you want. Don’t care anyhow.”

“She’s right. We should just get a move on. I’ll be okay, I’ve survived way worse than a bump before.” A concession, a limping half-step, and Dorian would make Bull’s argument for him. 

“Maybe we should stop for the day. I’m sorry, I was being foolish earlier.” Dark eyes full of concern. Brown hands closing and opening in nervous fists. “Is there anywhere in the immediate area we can stop to make camp?” 

Dorian’s anxious frown mirrored the Inquisitor’s. They nodded, agreed it might be best to take a break rather than chance Iron Bull exacerbating an injury by trying to make it all the way to an established camp. There was a natural hot spring nearby with a flat plateau above it not too far out of the way. They could get there in an hour or less. A soak in the warm waters might do wonders to ease a sprain, alleviate tension.

“Sure you’re okay with that, Dorian? It’ll put us a day behind.” Bull asked though he could see Dorian was already resolved.  

“Of course! We’re not in a hurry. If we make the retainer wait, all the better to waste my father’s money, yes? Sera, what do you think?”

She gave the proposition some thought. 

“Yeah. Might as well. I could do with a dip, too: startin’ to smell a bit over here. I sorta get the dog stink comment now.”

 

It didn't take long to reach the plateau. Sera was sceptical the entire way of Bull’s injury- voiced her scepticism vocally. Dorian fretted like a tama over the qunari's every breath, waiting for the big man to fall apart completely. The Inquisitor was generous with their pace. The Iron Bull was not used to playing an invalid, nor to being the centre of focus. Years of hiding in plain sight trained the big man to abhor overt attention. It grated on his nerves to have three people watching him so intently for so long.

_ This is for that ungrateful, beautiful, nightmare having son of a bitch.  _ Less embarrassing to remind himself he wasn’t acting out for deception’s sake.

_ On the subject of embarrassment…. _

Watching Dorian fumble with the tent poles was equal parts hilarious and painful. He wasn’t accustomed to putting up a two person shelter on his own- a fact which was obvious. Bull tried a few times to get up and help him, but he was shooed away to a folded pad.

“You have to- no, don’t try to put the pole through if it’s not connected to the next segment. It’s elastic, so don’t put your fingers between the pieces or you’ll- Yup, pinch your fingers.” Bull sighed, watched Dorian try to remain composed.

Sera and the Inquisitor finished with their own tent. The elf came over to show Dorian how to get everything in its proper place. 

“Oh! So they click together. I understand now.  _ Then _ it goes through the canvass… tunnel? I don’t know what you’d call that. Sleeve! Do I just stick this bit into the ground then?” The man had an easier time getting everything assembled with direction.

“No, almost. Goes in the teeny ring first. Then these guys go in the less bitty ones. Squash ‘em in with your boots.” Sera handed Dorian a few tent stakes, showed him how to stomp on them, drive them into the frozen dirt. 

“Goodness! That wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. Thank you, I don’t think I would have figured it out otherwise.”    

“Thought  _ someone _ should be helping you.” The edge in Sera’s voice went completely beyond Dorian’s notice. 

“I’m not very good at practical matters, am I? I suppose I should learn to magic one of these fellows up, if I’m going to be bragging about my skills all the time.” He was pleased with his efforts nonetheless. “Should I get a start on lunch? I can have a look at your knee, Bull, once I get everything going.”  

“Sit down and look after dummy.” Sera pushed Dorian towards The Bull. “Let’s jus’ do cheese and nibbles again.”

Dorian sat to roll up Bull’s pant leg to palpate the supposedly injured knee. Produced a minuscule bladder of cream from one of his thousands of pockets.

“I’m fine with that if everyone else is. I think this should help, Bull. It probably can't hurt.”

The phrasing was disconcerting, but Bull’s trepidation proved unfounded. Whatever the man was rubbing into his knee was fantastic stuff. It burned on the skin for a second before soaking into the underlying tissues. A few gentle, precise passes of Dorian's talented fingers eased years of actual ache.

“What is that?” The Bull wondered if it was very expensive, maybe something readily available even if it was costly. He certainly charged the Inquisition enough for his services.

“Capsaicin oil.” Dorian distractedly replied. He didn't look up from his task. Strong fingers moved from around the kneecap to work under and behind the calf.

“Hmm. Pretty good stuff. Where'd you get it?”

“From peppers? Oh! Silly me. I made it. Did you want me to make you some, too? It’s easy to distill. Just don't touch your eye until after you’ve washed your hands.”

“Got it.” Bull wondered just how painful the oily cream would be in one’s eye as he took over massaging his knee. “I’m good on this here. Might just sit and relax with it for a few minutes. Why don’t you and Sera go scout the hot springs, collect some firewood, see if it’s walkable from here?”

“Fantastic thought! First times, and all that.” Sera quipped.

Bull watched the two collect up their weapons and head off down the slight slope they'd initially come. Bull had some more treats packed in his bag, wondered if he had anything quick enough to make which might spare Dorian superfluous effort or tedious flavour.

  
  


“Why’da even like him? He's so rude!”

Sera’s sudden outburst caught Dorian unaware. They had been lounging by a slow clear brook, about to top off their canteens.   

“Is he terribly? More than me so?” He did very much like The Bull. The qunari had never been overtly rude to him. Not any more than Dorian had been to other members of the Inner Circle (Blackwall excluded). All words considered, they both gave as good as they got. “He's a bit rough, I'll give you that much.” 

“Rough.” Her tongue shaped the word with care. “He’s rough with you?” Hadn't sounded like it the night before. Bull’s audible stream of conscious had been tender- _disturbingly_ so.

Dorian recorked his full copper bottle, sat back on his feet. He might be understanding Sera’s question. Bull wasn't  _ rough _ like that unnecessarily.

“Around the edges, I mean. The Iron Bull is... uncultured. I can see him coming off as uncouth.” The man conceded. Why someone like Sera should have a problem with someone equally uncivil as she, Dorian hadn’t the foggiest. “He's never been more than I could handle or appreciate.”

“ _ The Iron Bull _ ? Not just  _ Bull _ ? Fancy title for such a big lump.” She sat cross legged beside him to dip her waterskin in the running water. “That what you call him behind buttoned tent flaps?” 

“Sometimes. It is his name. I don’t have a, what would you call it, a- a sobriquet for him other than Bull.”

“You  _ know _ I wouldn’t call it that.” She stuck her tongue out at him. “Dumb yourself down once in a while, would ya? Shite!”

“But you are getting ever so much better at parsing my meaning! You’re gaining quite the vocabulary just talking with me. I’ll make a logophile of you yet.” Now Dorian was curious as to the importance of his word choice. “Why should it matter what I call my... inamorato on my own time?” 

“‘S a bit arrogant, innit? Who wants their imamore- inamoror-  _ lover _ to call them something with a  _ The  _ in it?”

“The Iron Bull, I should think. But don’t call us that. It makes me feel uncomfortable.”

“What? Lovers? More or less than tool? For someone who talks all the time, you sure do hate a lot of words. I’d say you’ve got issues, but I’m sure there’s a prettier word for what goes on in that head of yours.”

“You know, I’d prefer it if you just shot me with an arrow when you want to wound me. I’d be marginally less annoyed than I am now.”

“Right then. Not lovers.” Sera pondered while Dorian worried what that might mean. “Jousting partners, then?”

“Maker, I think I actually find that a preferable alternative to anything else you might have said. You can call us whatever you like, and I will call him whatever I like. Surely it isn’t important we all agree on pet names for each other,  _ Buttercup _ .” 

“Phhfft. It’s not important. Just seemed a smidge stiff, kinda proper, for you to call him that. If you like him, that is. Feel me?”

“Not if you paid me to. I  _ do  _ like him. I’ll say it emphatically now in case I’ve failed to say it before.” Dorian tucked his canteen away, felt in his pouches for his flask. He didn’t like the idea he was displaying affection incorrectly. He partook of the liquor before presenting it to Sera. “How so proper?”

“Like, hm, I woulda thought you’d pick something cutesy. Something fluffier to call him when making bedroom eyes. Does he just call you ‘Dorian?’ Personal, I’d do ‘Dori-Bori.’” She wiggled the flask before handing it back. “Yuck and yum! This is just naff enough I know it’s good.”

“He has called me other things.” Some which wouldn't bear repeating in the light of day.

But Bull had a few pet names for Dorian he used regularly. “Big guy” in particular seemed to get thrown about a lot in public. Dorian could suppose the irony was meant to be charming. Was Dorian supposed to have come up with his own endearments? Was that customary (normal?) in an actual relationship? 

It wasn’t that Dorian had anything against using pet names. He had no idea how he was to come up with one. Cutesy, Sera suggested… Stud Muffin? Bullie? T.I.B?  _ Tib _ ? 

Horrible. 

Should he be ironic, too? He could call The Bull “Tiny,” as Varric did. “Little guy” didn’t have any of silly appeal of “big guy.” Plus it sounded derogatory, as if Dorian was referring to only one portion of Bull, his gargantuan anatomy.  

So incredibly stupid.

Names were like labels, right? It had never been up to Dorian to define his role relative to a sexual partner. Names, labels, signifiers all hinted at something Dorian was not comfortable defining yet.

_ This can be whatever you need it to be. I “like” you, too. _

“Bull’s birth name is a series of numbers, if he’s to be believed. He’s never seemed particularly inclined to provide them and I’ve never asked. ‘The Iron Bull’ has sufficed well enough for us thus far, I see no reason to do anything other than shorten it when necessary or convenient.”

“I guess it takes all sorts. Boring ones, too.” She sounded convinced. “Heh hehe, Bori-Dori. Get it?”

“The Iron Bull is better than any of us deserve, no matter what name we call him by.” Said more in response to the entire situation, to Dorian’s own life than anything Sera had stated.

“Mind I’m not judging, prissy britches. You an’ me, we’re friends, yeah? I can ask questions without your getting fussy on me. Must be doing something right- me? I’ve been throwing coppers down a number of wells asking for an inamataro, only my wish isn’t coming true. Maybe I should try koi ponds… I dunno.” Sera finished with  glum little sigh.

Dorian knew well the pangs of such loneliness.

“I’m sorry, Sera. I’m being tactless. I understand how depressing it can be when the, ah, assortment of prospective partners isn’t particularly bountiful. I shouldn’t gloat.”

“Good enough to gloat over, is he? Always thought he looked bountiful.”

“Better than the best of a bad situation.” He hadn’t been blessed enough to strike the bottom of that low bar with consistency back home. Bull possessed a refreshing array of fantastic and wondrous attributes. Kind, kinky, considerate, compassionate and singularly creative in employing the aforementioned traits.

“I hope he’s better than that even.” Sera was staring into the brook wistfully. “Makes me sad to think you ran away from home and all you got was a broken down old Bull for your troubles. If he wasn’t what you wanted, that is. No offense. Don’t know shite about boys and what makes for a good one.”

“Bull isn’t at all what I wanted, but I’m less surprised to realise he is what I need. Regardless, I’m on the wrong side of thirty to play the part of juvenile delinquent. I didn’t “run away” from home.” Hadn’t he, though? “I came to Ferelden to make a difference, not to get laid.”

“All the more reason you deserve someone who makes you happy.” She tied her waterskin back to her belt. “Ehhhh… maybe I’m just, what did Varric say the other day ‘bout Solas? Protruding.”

“That's not a...Projecting?” 

“Nah. That doesn’t sound right either.” Sera hucked a pebble into the brook. “Not much for praying, but I’d hope we both come out of this fight better than when we started.”

Truly, a sentiment he could agree with.

“We can certainly dare to dream. Here!” Dorian stood, held a hand out to the moping elf. “Let’s head back for now. I’ll start us up a fire. We can check out those hot springs before we’re settled in for the night. What say you?”

“”Yay’ more an’ more each minute. I can’t blame the horse for this funky smell, now that I’m this far from him.”

  
  


Bull poked through his bag, trying to find something suitably easy to make which didn’t sacrifice flavour. Most of what he’d brought along was dried, instant prep foodstuffs- with one or two exceptions. He sat on his sleeping pad, taking the Inquisitor’s opinion on a few of the rarer fares as they finished digging a fire pit.

Sera and Dorian reappeared at the crest the hill. Whatever the elf was saying, the man was listening intently and nodding vigorously. Engaged,  _ happy _ . Neither was walking in a straight line, hips bumping as they walked uphill. A bit drunk.

“Hey, Dorian, come check these out.” Bull patted the end of his mat. “You, too Sera. I might have something tastier than three days old bread  if you want to try Qunari cuisine.”

“Oh?” Cuisine was likely being used chritably here, but Dorian was excited to share in Bull’s heritage. Plus, tasty sounded good while tired and tipsy. 

Sera sat in the dirt across from them both to dig through the backpack.

“What on earth are these?” Dorian had picked up a hard cluster of thin, starchy strands wrapped in banana leaves. He gave it a sniff, titled his head quizzically. They didn’t have a smell, didn’t seem edible. Bull stopped him before he could try a nibble.

“Mmm. Dehydrated noodles. They soften up in water. All the spices and meats are in the middle, seasons itself when you boil it. You can eat it uncooked, none of the ingredients are raw, but it’s really tough. I wouldn't recommend it.”

“Thank goodness! I was worried you were going to say you eat it like that. I know you said the Qun teaches self-discipline, but eating bricks....” The mage laughed, set the noodles aside to look over the other offerings laid out for him.

“And this one?” Sera had a bag of little somethings she was rattling. “Are they beans? Feel too small.”

“Ha.  _ Those _ guys, huh?” Bull took the bag from Sera. He actually wanted to save this bag as an after dinner treat. “This is ‘fun food.’ I’ll definitely be making this for you guys tonight.”

“Is it sweet?” Dorian asked hopefully.

“If you want it to be, sure, I can make it sweet.” Bull put the bag back into his pack. “You want some candy for now?”

“Yeah!” Sera advanced excitedly.

“I like sweet, but I don't really like eating too much sugar.” Dorian scooted closer, a hand unconsciously on Bull’s knee.  

“I can work with that.” Bull sorted through his bundles. “Outta curiosity, what do you miss most about the North?”

The man tapped a finger to his chin.

“Fruit.” Stared very conclusively. “I miss fruit, nothing aside from roots really grows south of the ocean.”

“Right? I've had endless conversations with Blackwall about it. He thinks I'm crazy. But bananas are really small down here.”

Sera rolled her eyes, assumed Bull was being pervy. Dorian picked up exactly on the train of thought Bull hoped he would.

“Yes! And they don’t taste the same at all. It’s because we don't actually have the same kind of bananas as down here. We have, kaffas.. I don't remember the Trade word for them… plantains?  _ Cooking bananas _ , chef used to say. They have a more mellow, savoury taste.”

“That what it is? I thought something was off about the ones around here.”

“Mushy, aren’t they, sort of gooey.” Dorian agreed.

“You boys and your nanners.” Sera resumed pawing through the packages.

“Here, a present.” Bull pressed a little round bottle into Sera’s hand. “It’s basically a flavoured sugar syrup. Sets my teeth on edge, but you’ll probably like it.”

Sera bounded off with the bottle to sit on the far side of the fire pit. 

“And one for the Inquisitor.” Bull tossed a bundle over to them. “Nougat with nuts. Delicious stuff, but it’s a little tough. I suggest cutting off the rind and just eating the inside.”

Satisfied the others were engrossed, he could be more playful with his mage.

“And of course, I have something for you, too.” The Bull had left it in his pocket so Sera couldn’t make off with it. “Ta-da!”

“Are these-” Dorian’s eyes were alight in excitement.

“Candied dates and almonds. Nothing but the best for my baby!”

Excitement warred briefly with annoyance before winning the bout. Dorian tore into the bag without semblance of decorum.

“Hey wait, I wanted to do this properly.” Bull quickly pulled the bag back. “Here lean against me and I’ll feed them to you.”

“Ah... pardon?” A quick glance assured Dorian the Inquisitor was busy carving the nougat into manageable bites an Sera was in the process of rapidly inducing a sugar coma. “Very well, then.”

The sensation of hand-feeding Dorian each tiny morsel should be a sin in its own right. Soft full lips, tickly waxed moustache, perfect teeth all catching on the rough pad of Bull’s thumb and forefinger.

“So just how far was the hot springs from here? About fifteen minutes would you say.” The practice was getting The Bull a bit hot and bothered, was giving him a few ideas of how to put that mouth to use.

“Oh, um.” Dorian finished chewing. “We didn’t actually make it that far. We ended up having a surprisingly pleasant discussion. I would guess about 20 minutes at least.”

“Hmm… well, let get some of these noodles cooking and maybe you want to help me walk down there after we’ve had some food?”

The flush of colour in Dorian’s cheeks accompanied by his sudden averted gaze proved you only needed one functional eyebrow to waggle suggestively.

**Author's Note:**

> I am apparently unable to help myself. Every time I write myself into a corner with my proper work, I have to come back to this series and try to knock out my writer's block....
> 
> More comfort and more actually fucking coming soon.


End file.
